Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like dust, old tea leaves, and someone else’s cooking mistakes.

Zuko stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, scar catching the thin light that slipped through the cracked window. The place was small — one room, crooked floorboards, a narrow kitchen that barely deserved the name. A single table leaned slightly to the left like it was tired of standing.

“This is it?” Zuko said flatly.

Iroh smiled like he’d just found a hidden palace. “Cozy, isn’t it? And affordable! The landlord only asked twice if we were spies.”

Zuko groaned and stepped inside anyway. The floor creaked under his boots.

Behind him, Jet lingered in the hall, sharp eyes scanning the stairwell before finally entering. He moved like he always did — light, ready, hand never far from the twin hooks at his back. Even in the Earth Kingdom disguise, there was something wild and alert about him, like a bowstring pulled too tight.

Jet didn’t comment on the apartment. He just checked the windows, tested the door lock, and positioned himself where he could see both exits.

“Paranoid much?” Zuko muttered.

Jet shot him a sideways look. “Alive much?”

Their eyes locked for a brief second — old friction, old grudges, buried under necessity. Ba Sing Se was supposed to be safe, but neither of them believed in safety anymore.

Iroh set down his pack with a satisfied sigh. “We will make this place our home for a while. A peaceful new chapter.”

Jet snorted quietly. “Peace doesn’t last in this city.”

Zuko noticed the tension in his voice. Jet didn’t trust Ba Sing Se any more than he trusted Zuko — maybe even less.

Zuko walked to the window and peeked out at the narrow street below. Vendors shouting, kids running barefoot, steam rising from food carts. Life stacked on top of life. No Fire Nation banners. No soldiers. Just people trying to survive.

For the first time in weeks, his shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Fine,” Zuko said. “We’ll make it work.”

Jet leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I’ll take first watch tonight.”

Zuko turned. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Jet interrupted calmly. “But I will.”

Their gazes met again — something unspoken passing between them. Not trust. Not yet. But a fragile truce, held together by shared danger and too many enemies.

The Lower Ring felt different when you weren’t looking over your shoulder every second.

Zuko kept his hands tucked in his sleeves as he and Jet moved with the evening crowd, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching. The streets were narrow here, packed with vendors and smoke from cooking fires, all of it layered over the constant hum of voices. A kid darted past with a paper kite, laughing like the world had never ended.

Jet watched him go with a tightness in his eyes that softened only a little.

They stopped at a cart where skewers hissed over hot coals. The vendor smiled, cheeks round and friendly. “Two for you and your brother?”

Zuko opened his mouth—then stopped.

Jet answered first, easy as breathing. “Yeah. Two.”

The vendor handed them food wrapped in paper. Zuko fumbled for coins, still stiff with the habit of being watched, of being wrong-footed by strangers who were too kind.

“Name for the order?” the vendor asked, mostly for fun.

Zuko’s spine went rigid.

Jet bumped him lightly with his elbow. “Lee,” Jet said.

Zuko shot him a look.

Jet didn’t meet it, just took the skewers and started walking again, like he hadn’t just plucked the lie out of the air and wrapped it around Zuko’s shoulders like a cloak.

Zuko followed, heat rising in his face. “Don’t say my—”

“I didn’t,” Jet said, biting into the skewer. “Relax.”

Zuko huffed. “I am relaxed.”

Jet snorted around a mouthful of food. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even sharp. It was… almost amused.

They walked in silence for a while, eating as they went. The food was cheap and greasy and far better than it had any right to be. Zuko hated how much he liked it.

They passed a stall selling little steamed buns shaped like turtle-ducks. A girl behind the counter waved enthusiastically. “Fresh! Still warm!”

Jet slowed, eyes flicking to Zuko like he was checking the temperature of a pot before touching it. “You want one?”

Zuko bristled automatically. “I don’t—”

Jet was already buying two.

Zuko stared at the bun in his hand like it was an insult. “I said I don’t—”

“You said you don’t need it,” Jet corrected, tone casual. “Different.”

Zuko took a bite and immediately regretted having pride.

Jet’s mouth twitched. “See? You’re human.”

Zuko glared. “I’m going to throw this at you.”

“Do it,” Jet said, and for the first time since they’d come to Ba Sing Se, there was something light in his voice. “I’ll duck and it’ll hit some guy trying to rob you.”

Zuko stopped walking. “You really think everyone’s trying to rob me.”

Jet shrugged, but it wasn’t defensive. It was honest. “In places like this? People take what they can. Sometimes it’s money. Sometimes it’s—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening for a beat.

Zuko watched him. He’d seen Jet angry before. He’d seen him righteous, sharp-edged, ready to burn the world down to keep it warm. But right now Jet looked tired. Like he’d been holding his breath for years.

Zuko lowered his voice. “You hate cities.”

Jet glanced around at the chaos—kids weaving between legs, the shout of a vendor, a man playing a battered flute for spare coins. “I hate what cities hide,” he said. “Forests don’t pretend.”

Zuko almost said neither do I, but the words stuck in his throat. Pretending was what he did now. Pretending was survival.

Jet looked at him again, and the edge softened. “But…” He nodded toward a group of old men arguing cheerfully over a game of pai sho on a crate. “This part isn’t so bad.”

Zuko followed his gaze. One of the men slapped down a tile and crowed like he’d conquered a kingdom. The others groaned and laughed and kept playing.

Zuko didn’t smile. But something in his chest eased anyway.

They kept walking, slower now, not rushing back to the apartment. Jet finished his skewer and wiped his hands on his trousers, then tipped his head toward a narrow alley where the noise of the street thinned into a quieter pocket of air.

Zuko stiffened. “We’re not going in there.”

Jet rolled his eyes. “I’m not leading you into a trap, Lee. I’m showing you something.”

Zuko hated how the fake name sounded like it belonged to him.

Still, he followed.

The alley opened into a tiny courtyard wedged between buildings. Someone had hung paper lanterns overhead. A little fountain burbled in the center, barely more than a trickle, but it made the whole space feel cooler. A few kids sat on the edge, dangling their feet in the water like they owned the world.

Jet leaned against the wall, shoulders loosening as if he’d finally set down a heavy pack. “Found this yesterday.”

Zuko stood beside him, awkward. “Why are you showing me?”

Jet glanced over, expression unreadable for a moment. Then he exhaled, and when he spoke his voice was quieter.

“Because you look like you’re about to break something every time someone smiles at you,” he said. “And because… if we’re doing this—” He gestured vaguely, meaning the city, the tea shop, the pretending. Meaning together, whether they wanted to admit it or not. “—you should know there are places that don’t feel like a cage.”

Zuko swallowed, suddenly aware of the warm bun in his hand, the lantern light above, the way the city could be gentle if it wanted.

“Thanks,” he said, and hated how sincere it sounded.

Jet smirked like he’d caught him doing something embarrassing. “Don’t get used to it.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Jet’s smirk widened. “Good.”

And then—like the world was playing a joke—Jet actually laughed. Not loud. Not for show. Just a short, real sound, like something he hadn’t allowed himself in a long time.

Zuko blinked, thrown off balance.

Jet pushed off the wall. “Come on. Iroh’s going to ask where we went, and I’m not explaining that you stopped to brood at a fountain.”

“I wasn’t brooding,” Zuko snapped automatically.

Jet started walking, still amused. “Sure, Lee.”

The street outside their window still had life—distant laughter, a cart rattling over stones, a drunk man singing off-key—but their apartment was mostly dark. One candle burned on the table, its flame bending every time the winter air slipped through the cracks.

Iroh sat on the floor with a kettle balanced over a small brazier, coaxing it toward a boil like patience could be brewed. Zuko paced.

Three steps. Turn. Three steps. Turn.

“You can’t be serious,” Zuko said, voice low but sharp enough to cut. “This—this is what we’re doing? Serving tea and pretending we’re not who we are?”

Iroh didn’t look up. “We are serving people something warm in a cold city. That is not nothing.”

Zuko stopped. His fists clenched in the sleeves of his worn shirt. “We’re living in a dump.”

Iroh’s brows lifted gently, as if Zuko had commented on the weather. “It is a modest home.”

“It smells like mildew. The floorboards creak like they’re warning the whole block every time I breathe.” Zuko’s anger built on itself, heat looking for a place to go. “And you act like it’s… it’s some kind of vacation.”

Iroh poured tea leaves into a cup, measured and calm. “Your mother used to say that even the smallest room could feel like a palace if there was peace inside it.”

Zuko’s scar twitched. “Don’t talk about her like this is what she’d want.”

Iroh’s hand paused. Just for a moment. Then he continued, setting the leaves down with care.

“What would you rather do?” Iroh asked quietly.

Zuko’s answer came too fast, like he’d been chewing on it all day. “Find the Avatar.”

Iroh finally looked up. The candlelight made his face softer, older. “And then?”

“Capture him,” Zuko said, as if the words were a rope he could cling to. “Take him to my father. Restore my honor. Go home.”

Home.

The word tasted like smoke.

Iroh held Zuko’s gaze for a long time. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t angry. It was heavier than that. “Zuko… your father has shown you what ‘home’ means to him.”

Zuko’s breath hitched. “Don’t.”

“You have risked everything for his approval,” Iroh continued gently, “and he has given you nothing but pain.”

Zuko flared. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Iroh’s eyes softened with something that made Zuko feel suddenly too exposed. “I know exactly what I am talking about.”

Silence stretched. The kettle began to hiss.

Zuko’s voice cracked around the next words, and he hated himself for it. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t wake up and—” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling with fury and fear and a loneliness he couldn’t afford. “This is all I have left.”

Iroh rose slowly, careful like he was approaching something skittish. “No,” he said. “It is all you have known. There is a difference.”

Zuko turned away before Iroh could see the wet shine in his eyes. He stared at the cracked plaster wall like it had answers. “We’re wasting time.”

Iroh stepped closer, voice steady. “We are buying time.”

“For what?” Zuko snapped, spinning back. “So you can play shopkeeper while the Avatar gets stronger? While the Fire Nation wins without me? While I rot in this city?”

Iroh’s tone didn’t change, but something firm settled into it, like a door closing. “So you can live.”

Zuko froze.

Iroh’s hand rested lightly on the table, anchoring himself. “Look at what you have done, nephew. You have survived storms, warships, deserts. You have fought men twice your age. You have endured humiliation and hunger and the cruelty of your own father.”

His voice softened. “And still you stand.”

Zuko’s throat burned. “None of it matters if I don’t—”

“If you do not please him?” Iroh finished. “Zuko, listen to me.” He took a breath, as if choosing every word with care. “You cannot find your worth in the eyes of someone determined not to see it.”

Zuko’s hands shook. “What am I supposed to do then?”

Iroh’s gaze held him, warm and unwavering. “Start a new life.”

Zuko stared, disbelieving. “You want me to just… give up.”

Iroh’s expression didn’t waver. “No,” he said softly. “I want you to let go of what is killing you.”

Zuko’s anger surged again, desperate and directionless. “You think serving tea is a new life? You think this filthy little apartment is going to fix me?”

“I think,” Iroh said, voice gentle but unyielding, “that you are allowed to be something other than your father’s weapon.”

The kettle whistled sharply, splitting the room.

Zuko flinched like it was a scream.

Iroh reached over and lifted it off the brazier, letting the sound die. He poured the hot water into two cups and carried one toward Zuko.

Zuko didn’t take it.

Iroh held it anyway, not forcing, just offering.

“Here,” Iroh said quietly. “For tonight… let us be only a tired uncle and a tired nephew, drinking tea in a small room.”

Zuko’s eyes darted to the cup, then away. His voice came out thin. “I hate it here.”

“I know,” Iroh said.

Zuko swallowed hard. “I hate that you’re acting like this is okay.”

Iroh’s smile was sad and kind at once. “It is not okay,” he admitted. “But it is… possible.”

Zuko’s breathing slowed, uneven. The fight was still in him, a fire with nowhere to burn. But beneath it, something else trembled—an exhausted hope he didn’t want to feel.

Iroh lowered the cup to the table between them. “You may chase the Avatar if you must,” he said. “But while we are here, I ask you to try something else, too.”

Zuko’s voice was rough. “What.”

Iroh met his eyes. “Try living.”

Zuko didn’t answer.

The candle guttered, throwing their shadows up onto the walls—two shapes in a cramped room, one restless and sharp, the other steady as a mountain.

Outside, Ba Sing Se breathed on, indifferent.

Inside, Zuko stood very still, as if he was afraid that if he moved even an inch, the life Iroh was offering might slip through his fingers like steam.

Chapter Text

Zuko waited until the kettle went quiet again.

Until Iroh’s breathing evened out on the other side of the room, heavy with sleep or something close enough to pretend. The candle had burned low, wax pooling like a slow surrender. Zuko lay on his back staring at the ceiling, listening to the city settle.

He couldn’t.

The argument still rang in his bones. Start a new life. Like it was that simple. Like you could just set down your past the way Iroh set down a teacup.

Zuko slipped up silently, pulling on his boots, keeping his movements controlled. He eased the door open and stepped into the hall.

Cold air hit him like a slap.

He welcomed it.

Down the stairwell, out onto the street—Ba Sing Se at night was a different creature. Dim lanterns. Fewer voices. Shadows tucked into corners. The Lower Ring smelled like soot and wet stone.

Zuko walked fast, fists clenched, trying to outrun his own thoughts.

Behind him, soft footfalls followed.

Not loud. Not careless.

Zuko didn’t turn until he reached the end of the block. Then he spun, eyes blazing.

Jet stood a few paces back under a lantern, hood up, hands visible, posture neutral like he was trying not to look threatening. It didn’t work. Jet looked threatening when he was breathing.

Zuko’s anger found a target and latched on.

“Are you kidding me?” Zuko hissed. “Are you stalking me now?”

Jet’s expression stayed controlled, but his eyes sharpened. “You left in the middle of the night.”

“So?” Zuko snapped. “I’m allowed to walk.”

Jet didn’t rise to it. He didn’t smirk or bite back. He just watched Zuko like he was watching a fuse burn down.

Zuko stepped closer, voice low and furious. “Go back.”

Jet didn’t move.

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “I said go back.”

Still nothing.

Something hot and ugly surged in Zuko’s chest. Not just anger—humiliation, pressure, the feeling of being trapped in a city that wanted him small.

“I don’t need you,” Zuko spat. “I’m not some helpless—” He cut himself off, breath ragged. “Get lost.”

Jet’s gaze flicked over Zuko’s face—over the scar, the clenched fists, the tension in his shoulders—and for a second something almost sympathetic ghosted across his expression.

Then it was gone.

Jet straightened a fraction, shoulders back. The shift was subtle but unmistakable: the loose, half-friendly edge from earlier replaced by something formal and hard.

He spoke evenly, like reciting a rule.

“With respect,” Jet said, “that’s not your decision.”

Zuko stared at him, stunned by the tone more than the words.

Jet kept his eyes forward, voice measured. “I was hired to keep you alive. That makes me your bodyguard.”

Zuko’s hands shook. “I didn’t hire you.”

Jet’s jaw tightened. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Zuko snarled, stepping into Jet’s space. “I didn’t ask for you. I didn’t ask for any of this—this city, this job, this stupid apartment—”

Jet didn’t flinch. He didn’t back up. He just held Zuko’s gaze like a wall.

“I know,” Jet said quietly.

The words landed wrong—too calm, too certain—and Zuko’s anger snapped sharper.

“You don’t know anything,” Zuko hissed. “You think you do, because you’ve decided I’m your assignment? Because you get to stand behind me and pretend you’re in control?”

Jet’s eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed formal, restrained. “I’m not pretending anything.”

Zuko’s breath steamed in the cold. “Then leave.”

Jet paused. It was the first hesitation, the first crack in that calm.

When he answered, it was still polite. Still controlled. But there was steel underneath it.

“I can give you space,” Jet said. “I can stop talking. I can walk ten paces back so you don’t have to look at me.”

He held Zuko’s eyes. “But I’m not leaving you alone out here.”

Zuko’s throat tightened, fury strangling on something else he refused to name. He hated the way Jet sounded like Iroh—steady, immovable—like Zuko’s anger was just weather passing over stone.

Zuko looked away first, because if he didn’t, he might do something stupid.

“Fine,” he ground out. “Follow. Be a shadow. Whatever.”

Jet’s tone stayed formal. “Thank you.”

Zuko whipped his head back, eyes flashing. “Don’t thank me.”

Jet didn’t react. He just shifted to the side—exactly where a bodyguard would stand, watching the street, watching the corners, watching everything Zuko was too angry to notice.

The next day at the tea shop was all steam and apologies.

Zuko stood behind the counter with an apron tied too tight, hands moving on autopilot: cups, saucers, kettle, repeat. The Jasmine Dragon was busy in that Lower Ring way—people drifting in for warmth and cheap comfort, lingering longer than they meant to.

Iroh floated through it like a friendly spirit, laughing with customers, recommending blends, somehow making even the most threadbare corner table feel important.

Zuko tried not to scowl at anyone.

Jet lingered near the doorway again, pretending he was just another bored customer. He wasn’t holding his hooks, but Zuko could feel the weight of them anyway, like the air remembered.

“Relax,” Jet had murmured earlier when Zuko glared at him for it.

Zuko had not relaxed.

The bell above the door chimed, and a girl stepped in with the cold still clinging to her scarf. She brushed snow from her sleeves, cheeks pink from the wind, and looked around like she was searching for something that wasn’t on the menu.

Her eyes landed on Zuko.

And she smiled.

Not polite-customer smile. Not wary-city smile. An open one, like she’d decided the day might be good and wanted someone else to agree with her.

Zuko went stiff on instinct.

She walked up to the counter, leaning in slightly as if the shop had whispered a secret to her. “Hi.”

Zuko blinked. “...Hi.”

Up close, her expression was even warmer—bright eyes, small freckles across her nose, the kind of face that made you forget to be guarded for half a second.

“I’ve never been here before,” she said. “But it smells amazing. Is it always like this?”

Iroh appeared beside Zuko like a delighted magician. “Always!” he declared. “Welcome, welcome. You have found the finest tea in Ba Sing Se.”

The girl laughed. “That’s a big claim.”

“A true one,” Iroh said, placing a hand over his heart.

Zuko watched her laugh like he wasn’t sure if it was real.

Jet shifted by the door—subtle, but Zuko caught it. A quick assessment. The girl’s hands, her sleeves, the way she stood. Then, apparently satisfied, Jet looked away, scanning the street again.

The girl turned back to Zuko. “So… do you work here too?”

Zuko’s mouth went dry. “Yeah.”

“What’s your name?” she asked, casual.

There it was. The question that always carried danger.

Zuko hesitated for a fraction of a second too long.

“Lee,” he said.

The lie came out smoother than it should’ve. Like it had been waiting in his throat.

The girl smiled wider, like the name was charming. “Lee. I’m Jin.”

Jin. The sound of it was soft. Ordinary. Safe.

“Nice to meet you,” Zuko managed, stiff as a plank.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Jin said, and she meant it, which made Zuko’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t like.

Iroh clasped his hands. “Jin! A beautiful name. What can we get you today?”

Jin leaned on the counter, eyes drifting back to Zuko again as if he was a puzzle she didn’t mind taking her time with. “What do you recommend?”

Zuko opened his mouth to say nothing—to push the decision away, to end the conversation before it became a problem—but Iroh nudged him lightly with an elbow.

Zuko swallowed. “Um. Jasmine.”

Iroh nodded approvingly, as if Zuko had delivered a speech.

Jin tilted her head. “Jasmine tea. Okay. I’ll trust you.”

Zuko’s fingers tightened around the cup he was holding. Trust. The word sat wrong in his hands.

He poured the tea carefully, because if he focused on the steam, the scent, the exact angle of the kettle, he didn’t have to focus on the fact that Jin was watching him like he was interesting.

He slid the cup toward her. “Here.”

Jin took it with both hands and inhaled the scent, eyes closing for a second like she was letting herself be comforted. “Wow,” she said softly. “That’s… really good.”

Iroh beamed as if he’d personally invented tea.

Zuko felt a strange, prickly warmth crawl up the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to do with praise. He didn’t know what to do with someone looking at him like he wasn’t dangerous.

Jin sipped again, then glanced toward the seating area. “Is it okay if I sit for a bit? It’s freezing outside.”

“Of course!” Iroh said. “Please, stay as long as you like.”

Jin started to walk away, then paused and looked back at Zuko. “Hey, Lee?”

Zuko’s stomach did an unpleasant little flip. “What.”

Jin smiled like the bluntness didn’t bother her. “If you’re not too busy later… would you want to walk home together? Just—” she lifted her shoulders, a little shy now, “—for company.”

Zuko froze.

He saw a dozen problems at once. Attention. Questions. Getting close. The risk of caring. The risk of hurting someone who didn’t deserve it.

Behind her, Jet’s gaze snapped to Zuko—sharp, alert, instantly suspicious.

Iroh, somehow, said nothing. He just watched Zuko with a quiet patience that felt like a hand on his shoulder.

Zuko looked at Jin.

She wasn’t afraid of him. She had no idea she should be.

And for a heartbeat, Zuko wanted—wanted to say yes just to see what it felt like to be normal. To be Lee. To be someone who walked home with a girl who smiled at him.

His mouth opened.

“I—” Zuko began, voice catching.

Jin’s eyes stayed on him, hopeful but not pushing.

Zuko swallowed, trying to force his brain to pick safety over desire.

And then, to his own surprise, he heard himself say, very quietly—

“...Okay.”

Jin’s face lit up like a lantern. “Great! I’ll come back near closing.”

She turned and headed to a table, tea in hand, humming under her breath like the world wasn’t made of sharp edges.

Zuko stood there staring after her, like he’d just stepped onto thin ice and realized too late he couldn’t see how deep the water was.

Jet’s voice came low from the doorway. “No.”

Zuko didn’t look at him. “Don’t start.”

Jet took a step closer, tone controlled but hard. “This is a bad idea.”

Zuko finally snapped his eyes to him, the old anger flaring—quick, defensive. “It’s a walk. In the Lower Ring. I’m not proposing to her.”

Jet’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get it.”

Zuko’s voice dropped dangerously. “I get plenty. I get that I’m tired of being treated like I can’t choose anything.”

Jet held his gaze for a beat, then looked away, scanning the shop again like he was swallowing whatever he really wanted to say.

Iroh set a gentle hand on Zuko’s arm. “Zuko,” he said softly, “sometimes a walk is just a walk.”

Zuko’s throat tightened.

He nodded once, stiffly, and turned back to the counter before anyone could see what his face was doing.

But his eyes kept drifting—against his will—toward Jin at her table, her hands wrapped around the cup like it was something precious.

By the time Iroh finally flipped the sign to CLOSED, Zuko had wiped the counter three times and still couldn’t make his hands feel steady.

Iroh busied himself with sweeping, humming like this was any other night. Like his nephew wasn’t standing at the edge of a cliff made of simple choices.

Jet lingered by the door, arms folded, eyes tracking every customer who left until the shop emptied. When the last bell-chime faded and the street noise seeped back in, Jet’s gaze landed on Zuko like a warning.

Zuko ignored him.

A moment later, the bell chimed again—lighter this time—and Jin stepped in, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf wrapped snugly around her neck.

“Hi, Lee,” she said, like saying his fake name made it real.

Zuko swallowed. “Hi.”

Jin’s smile brightened. “Ready?”

He nodded once, too stiff. “Yeah.”

Iroh appeared instantly, hands clasped like a proud matchmaker. “Have a wonderful evening! And remember—walk slowly. It is good for digestion.”

Zuko shot him a look. “Uncle—”

Jin laughed, and it made Zuko’s face heat.

Jet shifted at the doorway, stepping into Zuko’s path just slightly—not blocking him, just… existing where Zuko couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there.

“Lower Ring’s busy at night,” Jet said, voice neutral.

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “I know.”

Jin blinked between them. “Oh—do you… know each other?”

Jet’s expression smoothed into something politely blank. “Work thing.”

Zuko said quickly, “He’s—” and stopped, because what was Jet supposed to be? A friend? A shadow? A mistake that had followed him into a new life?

Jet answered for him, formal as ever. “I’m looking out for him.”

Jin’s brows lifted. “That’s… sweet.”

Zuko’s ears went hot. He pushed past, muttering, “Let’s go.”

Jin fell into step beside him, and just like that they were out in the street, walking shoulder to shoulder through lantern light and cooking smoke. The cold air sharpened everything—sounds, smells, the feel of Jin’s presence next to him like a warm coal you didn’t want to admit you needed.

“So,” Jin said after a few steps, “do you like it here? In Ba Sing Se?”

Zuko’s first instinct was no. His second instinct was don’t tell the truth to someone who looks like this.

He tried for something safe. “It’s… big.”

Jin grinned. “That’s true. Sometimes I feel like you could walk forever and never see the same street twice. But I like it.” She glanced at him, and her voice softened. “It makes me feel like anything can happen.”

Zuko didn’t know how to answer that. Anything could happen was exactly what he feared.

They stopped at a food cart, and Jin bought them two steamed buns before Zuko could protest. She held one out to him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Zuko took it carefully. Their fingers brushed, quick and accidental, and his whole body reacted like he’d been struck.

Jin didn’t seem to notice—just kept talking, pointing out small things as they walked: a musician playing to a half-asleep crowd, a vendor packing up unsold fruit, a dog trotting proudly with a ribbon tied around its neck.

Zuko found himself listening.

Not just to the words. To the way she spoke, like the world was worth describing.

After a while, Jin slowed and veered down a narrow side street. “Okay,” she said, almost conspiratorial. “I want to show you something.”

Zuko’s shoulders tightened automatically. “Where are we going?”

“The best place,” Jin promised. “Trust me.”

That word again.

Zuko almost told her not to use it. Almost told her she shouldn’t hand it out like spare change.

Instead he just followed, because the way she looked back at him—smiling, certain—made it hard to say no.

Two streets later, the noise thinned. The alley opened into a small courtyard, paper lanterns strung overhead like captured stars. A tiny fountain bubbled in the center, water trickling softly into a basin worn smooth by time.

Zuko stopped dead.

It was the same place Jet had shown him.

Jin beamed, proud of herself. “The lantern fountain! It’s kind of hidden, but it’s my favorite spot. When everything feels… loud, I come here.”

Zuko stared at the lanterns. At the quiet. At the small mercy of a place like this existing in a city that swallowed people whole.

“How did you—” he started.

Jin shrugged. “I wander a lot.” She stepped closer to the fountain and held her hands over the water, like she was warming them on the sound. “Plus, I like finding corners that feel like they belong to someone. Not to the city.”

Zuko’s chest tightened. He didn’t know why this place kept finding him.

Jin turned back to him, and her smile softened into something almost shy. “So… what do you do when things feel loud?”

Zuko’s tongue felt heavy. Fight. Run. Burn. None of those were answers she deserved.

He said the only true thing he could manage without breaking the fragile shape of the night. “I don’t know.”

Jin didn’t laugh at him. She just nodded, like that made sense. Like it was okay to not have an answer.

They sat on the fountain’s edge. Jin swung her feet a little, letting her boots tap gently against the stone. Zuko sat stiffly at first, then—slowly—let his shoulders lower a fraction.

“I’m glad you came,” Jin said after a moment.

Zuko stared at the water. “Why?”

Jin tilted her head. “Because you look like you’re carrying something heavy all the time.” Her voice was gentle, careful. “And I thought… maybe you deserved one night where you didn’t have to.”

Zuko’s throat went tight. He swallowed, hard. “You don’t even know me.”

Jin’s smile was small. “Then let me.”

The lanterns overhead swayed slightly in the breeze. Somewhere beyond the courtyard, the city went on living—unaware, uncaring. Here, it was just the fountain and the light and the strange, impossible feeling of being seen.

Zuko glanced at Jin, and for once he didn’t look away immediately.

Her eyes were bright in the lantern glow, and warm, and completely unafraid.

He felt it then—clear and unwelcome and real.

He liked her.

The realization was terrifying.

Jin nudged him lightly with her shoulder. “You’re very quiet, Lee.”

Zuko huffed a breath that almost turned into a laugh but didn’t quite make it. “I’m… not good at this.”

“At what?” Jin asked.

He gestured vaguely. “Talking. Being normal.”

Jin’s grin returned, mischievous. “Good. Normal is boring.”

Zuko’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile. Not fully.

But it was close enough that Jin noticed.

Her eyes widened a little, delighted, like she’d just found proof of something. “There! That’s it. You can do it.”

Zuko’s face warmed again. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Jin leaned in slightly, teasing. “I’m going to make a huge deal out of it.”

Zuko shook his head, but the tension in him eased in a way he couldn’t explain.

Above the courtyard wall, on a rooftop across the street, Jet stood half-hidden in shadow, arms folded tight. He’d positioned himself where he could see both entrances, the alley, the rooftops—every angle a threat could come from.

But his eyes kept drifting back to the fountain.

To Jin leaning close, laughing softly.

To Zuko—Lee—looking at her like he’d forgotten, for half a second, how to be angry.

Jet’s jaw tightened.

He told himself it was strategy. That he was watching for danger.

Still, when Jin smiled at Zuko and Zuko didn’t flinch away from it, something sharp and unpleasant twisted in Jet’s chest.

He looked away, scanning the street harder than he needed to.

Focus, he told himself.

But the lantern light made everything too visible.

Even jealousy.

Down below, Jin bumped Zuko’s shoulder again. “Come on,” she said, bright and earnest. “Make a wish.”

Zuko blinked. “What?”

Jin pointed at the lanterns. “People come here and make wishes. It’s silly, but… I like silly.”

Zuko hesitated. Wishing felt like weakness. Like asking for something you didn’t deserve.

Jin watched him, waiting without pressure.

So Zuko stared at the fountain, at the lanterns, at the quiet.

And in his head, he wished—stupidly, desperately—for one more night where he could be this person. Where he could sit here and not be hunted by his own name.

When he looked up, Jin was smiling at him like she already knew.

“See?” she said softly. “Not so hard.”

Zuko’s voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “Yeah.”

And as they sat under borrowed light in a hidden corner of Ba Sing Se, with a bodyguard on the roof pretending not to watch too closely, Zuko let himself feel something dangerous.

Hope.

They left the lantern fountain slower than they’d arrived, like neither of them wanted to be the first to break the spell.

The Lower Ring’s night air had teeth, but Jin didn’t seem to notice. She walked close enough that their sleeves brushed now and then, and every time it happened Zuko’s brain short-circuited like it was the first contact he’d ever had with another person.

“So,” Jin said, hands tucked into her scarf, “did you make a wish?”

Zuko kept his eyes forward. “No.”

Jin hummed, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”

Zuko shot her a look. “I’m not.”

Jin smiled up at him, all soft warmth and certainty. “You’re terrible at lying, Lee.”

The fake name hit him like a pinprick, sharp and familiar. He almost stumbled on the cobblestones.

Jin didn’t notice—she was watching a cat weave between a vendor’s legs like it owned the street. “I like walking at night,” she said. “Ba Sing Se feels less… crowded. You can pretend it belongs to you.”

Zuko swallowed. Pretend. That word again. The whole city was made of it.

They passed a shuttered stall and a narrow alley where two men stood arguing in low voices. Zuko’s shoulders tightened automatically, his gaze flicking to hands, shadows, exits—

And then Jin bumped him gently with her hip, like she’d sensed the tension.

“Hey,” she said. “You’re doing it again.”

Zuko blinked. “Doing what.”

“Looking like you’re about to fight the whole city,” Jin said, not teasing this time. Just… observant. “You don’t have to, you know.”

He almost said, You have no idea. He almost told her that the city was a fight, that his whole life had been a fight, that even a quiet walk could turn into a blade to the ribs if you were careless.

Instead he said, roughly, “It’s a habit.”

Jin nodded, like habits didn’t scare her. “Okay. Then we’ll make a new one.”

Zuko looked at her. “How.”

Jin slowed down, turning slightly so she was walking backward for a few steps, facing him. Lantern light caught in her eyes. “Easy,” she said. “When you feel yourself doing that…” She lifted her shoulders, mimicking his stiff posture. “You look at something nice instead.”

Zuko frowned despite himself. “Like what.”

Jin thought for a second, then pointed at a small paper lantern someone had hung crookedly above a doorway. It swayed in the wind, stubbornly refusing to fall. “Like that.”

Zuko glanced at it. It was just a lantern. Cheap paper, uneven frame.

But it was still glowing.

His chest tightened in a way he didn’t have words for.

They kept walking.

A few streets later, the noise thinned. Their footsteps filled the spaces between lantern pools. Jin’s pace slowed again, and Zuko realized they were nearing the turn that would take her toward her home.

His stomach dropped, sudden and stupid.

Jin rubbed her hands together and looked up at him. “Thanks for coming with me.”

Zuko stared at the street ahead like it might give him instructions. “Yeah.”

Jin smiled, waiting, like she was giving him time to find something better than yeah.

Zuko’s throat worked. “I… I had a good time.”

There. It wasn’t elegant, but it was true.

Jin’s expression softened, like his honesty was a gift. “Me too.”

They stopped at the corner. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The cold air pressed in around them, but something warmer sat in the space between their faces, close enough to feel.

Jin tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “So,” she said lightly, though her eyes weren’t light at all, “will I see you again? At the tea shop?”

Zuko’s answer came too fast. “Yes.”

Jin blinked, then laughed softly. “Wow. That was the quickest answer I’ve gotten out of you all night.”

Zuko’s ears went hot. “Don’t—”

Jin stepped closer, just a half-step, but it changed everything. Her voice dropped, gentle. “Lee,” she said, and the name didn’t feel like a lie when she said it. It felt like a secret. “Can I…”

She didn’t finish the question.

She didn’t have to.

Zuko’s heart hammered so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs. He didn’t know what he was allowed to want. He didn’t know what would happen if he reached for something good and it slipped through his fingers.

But Jin was right there—warm, real, looking at him like he was worth choosing.

Zuko swallowed.

Then, carefully—like he was approaching a flame he wanted to hold without being burned—he leaned in.

Jin met him halfway.

Her hand rose and rested lightly against his chest, as if anchoring herself. Zuko’s breath hitched when her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, and then her lips were on his—soft, sure, unafraid.

For a second, Zuko forgot everything.

No honor. No mission. No father. No mask. No city walls.

Just Jin, and the simple, terrifying feeling of being wanted.

He kissed her back, hesitant at first, then a little more firmly when she smiled against his mouth like she’d been waiting for him to stop holding back.

When they finally pulled apart, Jin’s cheeks were even pinker—whether from the cold or the kiss, Zuko couldn’t tell. She looked delighted and slightly breathless, like she’d just done something brave.

Zuko felt like he’d just stepped off a cliff and somehow landed in sunlight.

Jin’s smile turned softer. “Goodnight, Lee.”

Zuko’s voice came out quiet and rough. “Goodnight.”

Jin squeezed his hand once—he hadn’t even realized he’d taken it—and then she turned and headed down the side street, glancing back once with that same warm certainty.

Zuko watched until she disappeared.

Chapter Text

Zuko slipped back into the apartment well past midnight, boots barely making a sound against the creaking floorboards. The room was dim—only the dying embers in the brazier gave off a faint glow. Iroh slept on his mat, snoring softly, peaceful in a way Zuko could never manage.

Zuko eased the door shut behind him.

Or tried to.

A voice came from the darkest corner of the room.

“Well,” Jet drawled quietly, “looks like someone had a nice night.”

Zuko flinched so hard he nearly tripped over a tea tin. “Spirits—Jet? What are you doing awake?”

Jet stepped forward just enough for the light to catch his grin—sharp, amused, and dripping with that infuriating confidence he carried like a weapon. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“Hard not to stay awake,” Jet said. “What with all the… strolling and sighing and whatever else you were doing out there.”

Zuko’s shoulders snapped tight. “I wasn’t sighing.”

Jet arched a brow. “Please. I could practically hear the romantic tension from across the block.”

Heat shot straight up Zuko’s neck. “Shut up.”

Jet took a slow step closer, eyes glinting. “So? Did you enjoy your night out?”

Zuko shoved past him, heading toward his mat. “That’s none of your business.”

“Mm,” Jet said, following lazily. “You seemed pretty into that kiss.”

Zuko froze so suddenly the whole room felt it.

Jet’s smirk softened—not kinder, but less mocking. “Relax. She didn’t see me. I’m good at shadows, remember?”

Zuko whipped around, glare sharp. “Why didn’t you follow me?”

Jet blinked. Once. Slowly.

“Oh, now you want me around?”

“That’s not—” Zuko growled under his breath. “Just answer the question.”

Jet shrugged, but the motion was stiff, not casual. “I didn’t follow because I was told not to.”

“Told by who?”

Jet gave him a seriously? look.

Zuko’s stomach twisted. “Uncle.”

Jet nodded once. “He told me to give you a night without a guard lurking over your shoulder.”

Zuko swallowed hard. The weight of it settled over him—because of course it had been Iroh. Of course his uncle would know exactly how Zuko would react, exactly when he needed space… and exactly when to give him freedom he’d never ask for.

“Right,” Zuko muttered. “Figures.”

Jet watched him carefully. Then, more quietly, “You know he’s still the reason I’m here, right?”

Zuko let out a humorless huff. “I know.”

Jet tilted his head, analyzing him like he analyzed threats. “You sound annoyed.”

“I’m not annoyed.”

Jet’s smirk reappeared. “You’re definitely annoyed.”

Zuko finally met his eyes, irritation sparking—but beneath it, something older. Familiar. Heavy.

“Jet,” Zuko said, voice lowering, “you were my bodyguard before any of this. Back at the palace. Before everything fell apart. Before—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

Jet’s gaze sharpened, losing the teasing edge. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

Zuko looked away, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to erase the memory of a boy who didn’t need guarding until he suddenly did.

“You grew up with me,” Zuko muttered. “You saw everything.”

Jet’s voice roughened. “You think I don’t remember?”

Zuko’s breath hitched—barely—but Jet caught it.

Jet stepped closer, dropping the smirk entirely. “I was hired to protect you. Long before Ba Sing Se. Long before you even knew you needed protecting.”

Zuko swallowed. “And you’re still doing it.”

Jet’s jaw clenched—not anger, something like frustration. Or hurt he would never admit. “Yeah,” he said. “Because someone still thinks you’re worth keeping alive.”

Zuko didn’t know what to do with the way those words hit him—too honest, too sharp, too much.

Jet took another step, close enough that Zuko could see the tension in his shoulders. “But don’t pretend you wanted me there tonight.”

Zuko snapped his gaze up. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.” Jet’s voice softened into something almost bitter. “You looked happy. Happier than I’ve seen you in a long time.”

Zuko’s heart lurched, confusing even to him. “So what? That bothers you?”

Jet’s eyes flicked to the side, guarded. “It… doesn’t matter.”

Zuko blinked. Jet never said doesn’t matter unless something mattered a lot.

Silence stretched, thick as steam in a teapot.

Finally Jet exhaled, turning away just slightly. “Look, Zuko. I’m here to protect you. But Iroh’s the one calling the shots. If he says back off, I back off.”

Zuko absorbed that, staring at Jet’s silhouette against the low light.

Then, softly—almost too softly—Zuko said, “I didn’t want you gone.”

Jet froze.

The room did too.

Zuko’s voice stayed low. Raw. Honest in a way that made him feel exposed. “I just… needed space. Not for you to disappear.”

Jet turned back, slow, uncertain in a way Zuko rarely saw. “Then say that next time.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “I’m saying it now.”

Jet’s expression flickered—surprise, relief, something more complicated he shut down quickly.

“…Fine,” Jet said, voice steadying. “Then I’ll keep watch from a distance next time. Not vanish.”

Zuko nodded once. “Good.”

Jet stepped back, giving him room. “You should sleep. Iroh will have you brewing a thousand cups tomorrow.”

Zuko snorted. “He always does.”

Jet’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough that Zuko felt it. “Get some rest, Lee.”

Zuko glared. “Don’t call me that.”

Jet shrugged, moving toward his post near the window. “You let her call you that.”

Zuko’s ears burned. “That’s different.”

Jet sat down, leaning back casually but eyes sharp on the street outside. “Sure,” he said lightly. “Whatever helps you sleep.”

Zuko lay down, turning his back to hide the redness in his cheeks and the confused twist in his chest.

But long after he closed his eyes, he could still feel Jet’s presence in the room—steady, watchful.

Guarding him.

Just like he always had.

Morning in the tea shop was all clatter and steam—cups stacked too high, kettles singing, the air sweet with jasmine and roasted leaves.

Zuko moved on habit more than will. He’d barely slept. Every time he’d closed his eyes, he’d seen Jin’s smile under lantern light… and then Jet in the corner of the room, voice low, someone still thinks you’re worth keeping alive.

He hated how both memories made his chest feel too tight.

Iroh, of course, looked unbearably well-rested.

He adjusted the jars on the shelf with the care of a man arranging priceless treasures. “Ahh. A beautiful day, Zuko.”

Zuko tied his apron with a hard tug. “It’s a day.”

Iroh hummed thoughtfully. “Sometimes, that is enough.”

Zuko shot him a glare that Iroh pretended not to notice.

The bell above the door chimed.

Zuko’s spine went rigid before he even turned—like his body recognized the sound of hope and danger wearing the same face.

Jin stepped inside, cheeks pink from the cold again, hair tucked under a cap. She shook the snow from her sleeves and looked up—

and when she saw Zuko, her whole expression lit like she’d been waiting all night to do it again.

Zuko forgot how to breathe for a second.

“Hi,” Jin said, soft and bright.

Zuko stared a beat too long. “Hi.”

Iroh’s eyes twinkled. He drifted into view beside the counter like a proud stage manager. “Welcome back! You are just in time—today’s jasmine is particularly fragrant.”

Jin smiled at him politely, then her gaze snapped right back to Zuko as if the world only came into focus when he was in it. “I was walking by and I thought… maybe I’d stop in.”

Zuko’s ears warmed. “Okay.”

Jin laughed under her breath. “You’re still not very talkative.”

Zuko grumbled, “I talk.”

Iroh leaned closer to Jin, conspiratorial. “He talks more than he thinks.”

Zuko hissed, “Uncle.”

Jin’s grin widened. “I like it,” she said, then quickly added, a little shy now, “I mean—I like that you’re… you. Quiet.”

Zuko didn’t know what to do with someone liking him as he was. It felt like being handed something delicate when your hands were made for gripping swords.

He cleared his throat. “Do you want—jasmine again?”

Jin nodded eagerly. “Yes. The one you recommended.”

Zuko poured it carefully, focusing on the steady stream of water, the curl of steam, the safe rules of tea. When he slid the cup toward her, he didn’t let his fingers linger—because he wanted to, and that was a problem.

Jin took it with both hands, smiling over the rim. “Thanks, Lee.”

The name still hit him wrong.

But today, it didn’t hurt as much.

Jin glanced around the shop, then leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “So… are you working all day?”

Zuko nodded. “Yeah.”

Jin’s mouth twisted in mock disappointment. “That’s unfair. I was going to steal you for another walk.”

Zuko’s heart did an embarrassing thing.

Iroh made a thoughtful sound and turned away, suddenly very busy with a tea jar that did not need that much attention.

Zuko managed, stiffly, “I—can’t. I’m—”

“Busy,” Jin finished, but she didn’t sound upset. Just fond. Like she’d expected it. “Okay.”

Then she brightened. “But you get breaks, right? Even serious, quiet tea-shop boys get breaks.”

Zuko’s eyes flicked to Iroh.

Iroh’s face was angelically innocent. “Breaks are important,” he said, as if he hadn’t just arranged the entire universe to make this possible.

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “Uncle—”

Iroh continued serenely, “A short break in the afternoon helps the mind and the digestion.”

Jin hid a smile behind her cup. “See? Your boss agrees with me.”

Zuko muttered, “He’s not my—”

Iroh’s gaze slid to him, warm but pointed.

Zuko swallowed the rest of the sentence.

Jin sipped her tea, then looked up again, eyes bright. “So… could you take a break later? Just for a little bit?”

Zuko hesitated. Every instinct screamed that this was dangerous. That the second he reached for something good, it would turn to ash.

But Jin’s hope was quiet and patient. Not demanding. Not cruel.

And Zuko wanted it. He wanted the ridiculous normality of it.

He nodded once. “Yeah. I can.”

Jin’s smile was immediate, radiant. “Great! I’ll come back this afternoon.”

She stood, lingering a moment like she wanted to say something else. Her eyes flicked to his lips—so fast Zuko almost thought he imagined it—then back to his eyes.

Zuko’s throat went dry.

Jin’s cheeks warmed. “Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll see you later, Lee.”

“Yeah,” Zuko said, voice rough. “See you.”

She turned and left, bell chiming behind her.

The shop felt strangely emptier without her.

Zuko stared at the door for a second too long.

Iroh’s voice floated over from the shelves, mild as tea. “She seems very nice.”

Zuko snapped his head around. “Don’t.”

Iroh smiled. “I did not say anything.”

“You’re thinking it,” Zuko accused.

Iroh’s smile deepened. “Thinking is not a crime.”

Zuko scowled, grabbing a rag and wiping the same clean counter like it had personally betrayed him.

Behind the counter, Iroh’s eyes softened—not teasing now. Just… glad.

“Zuko,” he said gently, “it is good to be cared for.”

Zuko’s hand paused.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t argue.

Then he muttered, almost inaudible, “It’s complicated.”

Iroh’s voice stayed warm. “Yes,” he agreed. “But complicated does not mean bad.”

Zuko didn’t answer. He just kept wiping the counter, jaw tight, heart doing far too much for a simple tea shop day in the Lower Ring.

Zuko’s “break” turned into the kind of afternoon that didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

Jin came back just as the sun started dropping behind the rooftops, bringing long shadows and that golden Lower Ring glow that made even cracked stone look soft. She bounced on her toes at the doorway, scarf wrapped around her neck, eyes bright like she’d been holding excitement all day.

“You’re coming,” she said, like it was already decided.

Zuko glanced at Iroh.

Iroh didn’t even try to hide his smile. “Go,” he said, waving a hand like he was shooing a stubborn cat off a table. “I will manage the shop. Besides, the customers enjoy my company.”

Zuko muttered, “They enjoy your stories.”

“And my company,” Iroh added, pleased.

Jin’s grin widened. “See? Permission granted.”

Zuko sighed, already losing. “Fine.”

Jin led him through the Lower Ring like it was her personal map—past stalls and alleyways and tiny courtyards, stopping for candied fruit and fried dumplings, laughing when Zuko tried to pretend he didn’t like them.

At one point, she tugged him toward a street performer who was spinning rings of flame—bright, controlled circles that made the crowd cheer.

Zuko froze, throat tightening.

Jin glanced up at him, instantly noticing. “Hey. You okay?”

Zuko’s eyes stayed on the fire, jaw clenched. He forced his gaze away. “Yeah.”

Jin studied him for a second, then gently guided him back from the edge of the crowd without making a big deal of it, like she understood that some things didn’t need questions.

They ended up at a little noodle stand tucked under an awning, steam fogging the air and making Jin’s hair curl around her cheeks.

Jin slurped loudly on purpose just to see if Zuko would react.

Zuko stared at her. “Are you five?”

Jin beamed. “Maybe.”

Zuko tried to glare, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him—just barely.

Jin paused mid-bite, delighted. “There it is again!”

Zuko groaned. “Stop.”

“I’m going to keep pointing it out until you admit you’re capable of smiling,” Jin said cheerfully, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. “It’s my mission now.”

Zuko’s stomach did that unpleasant flip again. “You shouldn’t make that your mission.”

Jin’s expression softened. “Why not?”

Zuko had no answer that wouldn’t ruin the moment.

So he didn’t answer.

They walked after, slower, weaving through quieter streets. Jin talked about the little things—neighbors, her job, a stray cat she’d been feeding behind her building. Zuko listened, startled by how easy it was to just… exist beside someone.

At the edge of her street, she stopped.

“You’re going to start disappearing again,” she said, not accusing. Just guessing.

Zuko blinked. “What?”

Jin fiddled with the end of her scarf, eyes dropping for a second. “You get this look sometimes. Like you’re already halfway gone.”

Zuko’s chest tightened. “I’m here.”

Jin looked up at him, searching his face like she was trying to memorize it while she still could. “Okay,” she said softly. “Then… stay here a second.”

Zuko didn’t move.

Jin stepped closer, warm breath fogging between them. Her hand slid into his sleeve, fingers curling around his wrist like she was anchoring him to the street, to the city, to the moment.

Zuko’s heart slammed against his ribs.

“Goodnight, Lee,” Jin whispered.

Zuko’s voice came out rough. “Goodnight.”

Jin leaned in and kissed him—quick, sweet, familiar now in the way that made Zuko’s head spin. Zuko kissed her back before he could talk himself out of it, one hand lifting like he didn’t know where to put it until his fingertips hovered near her cheek.

When they pulled apart, Jin smiled like she’d stolen something priceless.

“Come back soon,” she said.

Zuko nodded, unable to speak for a beat. “Yeah.”

Then Jin turned and ran up the steps to her building, glancing back once and waving before she disappeared inside.

Zuko stood there for a moment too long, staring at the door like it might open again.

When he finally started walking home, the streets were darker.

Quieter.

And by the time he reached their apartment, the night had settled deep and cold.

He eased the door open.

Inside, the room was dim—one candle lit, low on wax. Iroh slept, face turned toward the wall, snoring softly.

Jet sat near the window, half in shadow, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the street like he’d been staring at it for hours.

When the door clicked shut, Jet didn’t look up right away.

Zuko took two steps in.

Jet’s voice cut through the silence, flat.

“You’re late.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened instantly. “I know.”

Jet finally turned his head. His expression was controlled, but there was an edge under it—annoyance sharpened into something more personal.

“How late?” Jet asked.

Zuko frowned. “Why does it matter?”

Jet’s eyes narrowed. “Because you were supposed to be back before the streets emptied.”

Zuko scoffed quietly. “I wasn’t in danger.”

Jet’s mouth tightened. “You don’t get to decide that after the fact.”

Zuko’s temper flared, exhausted and irritated. “I’m not a child.”

Jet stood, slow and deliberate. “No,” he said, voice low. “You’re someone with enemies.”

Zuko’s hands curled into fists. “I was with Jin. We were walking around. Eating food. Like normal people.”

Jet’s gaze flicked—just for a moment—to Zuko’s mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like the kisses were written there.

Then his eyes snapped back up, hard. “Normal people don’t have bounties on their heads.”

Zuko stepped forward. “Don’t talk about her like she’s a mistake.”

Jet’s jaw clenched, and for the first time he looked genuinely angry. “I’m not talking about her.”

He took a step closer, voice dropping. “I’m talking about you getting careless.”

Zuko’s breath steamed. “Careless? I spent my whole life being watched! By guards, by servants, by my father—”

Jet’s eyes flashed at the word father. The room tightened with it.

Zuko pushed on anyway, frustration spilling. “And now you’re doing it too. Like you’ve been assigned to me and that’s all I am—some problem to manage.”

Jet’s expression hardened into that formal mask again, the one he wore when he didn’t want anyone seeing what he felt.

“I was assigned to you,” Jet said, clipped. “That hasn’t changed.”

Zuko’s voice turned sharp. “Then do your job and stop acting like this is personal.”

For a heartbeat, Jet’s control wavered.

Something raw flickered across his face—hurt, anger, jealousy he’d never admit.

Then it vanished.

Jet’s voice went even, too even. “Iroh told me to give you space.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “And you did.”

Jet’s gaze stayed fixed on his, steady and resentful all at once. “And you came back late anyway.”

Zuko swallowed, chest tight. “Nothing happened.”

Jet let out a short, humorless breath. “Good.”

The word landed like it meant I’ve been imagining what could have.

Silence stretched between them.

Outside, a cart rattled in the distance. Somewhere a dog barked once, then quieted.

Zuko’s anger ebbed, leaving behind something tired. He ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to make you—”

Jet cut him off, voice flat again. “Just don’t do it again.”

Zuko bristled. “Don’t order me around.”

Jet’s eyes sharpened. “Then don’t give me reasons to worry.”

Zuko stared at him. “You’re worried.”

Jet’s jaw tightened. He looked away toward the window, posture rigid like he was bracing against the admission.

“I’m on watch,” Jet said, as if that explained everything.

Zuko’s throat worked. He wanted to push. He wanted to understand why Jet sounded like he’d been waiting in the dark with his fists clenched, like Zuko being late was a personal insult to the fragile control he’d built around keeping him safe.

But the room was small, and Iroh was asleep, and the argument could tip into something neither of them knew how to handle.

So Zuko swallowed it down.

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping toward his mat. “Next time I’ll be back earlier.”

Jet didn’t answer.

But as Zuko lay down, he heard Jet shift by the window—still watching, still guarding, still angry.

And Zuko hated how much that made him feel… anything at all.

Chapter Text

Jet left just after dawn, before the Lower Ring had fully woken up.

He didn’t say much—he rarely did in the mornings—but Zuko heard the familiar routine anyway: the soft scrape of boots, the pause at the door to listen, the quiet click of the latch. Even getting groceries, Jet moved like it was a patrol.

“I’ll be back,” Jet said.

Zuko, half-awake on his mat, didn’t look up. “Don’t get stabbed.”

Jet’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something snide, then he just left.

When the door shut, the apartment felt… oddly empty. Like a held breath had been released.

Iroh poured hot water into two cups with the same calm care he used for everything, then sat across from Zuko at the small table. The steam curled between them.

Zuko rubbed his face. “What?”

Iroh’s eyes were gentle. “Nothing urgent.” He slid one cup toward Zuko. “But I have been thinking.”

Zuko stared at the tea like it might be a trap. “About what.”

“About Jet,” Iroh said simply.

Zuko’s shoulders tightened. “What about him.”

Iroh took a slow sip. “He is loyal. Skilled. And…” Iroh’s gaze sharpened just slightly. “He follows my instructions even when he dislikes them.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched, remembering last night. Jet’s voice in the dark. Iroh told me to give you space.

“Yeah,” Zuko muttered. “He follows instructions.”

Iroh set his cup down. “He has served as your guard since you were young. That arrangement began under my authority.”

Zuko’s eyes flicked up. He knew that. He’d always known it, even when he pretended he didn’t. Back in the palace, Jet had just… been there. A shadow with a name Zuko tried not to learn too quickly, because shadows weren’t supposed to matter.

But Jet had mattered.

Iroh continued, voice quiet. “We are not in the palace anymore. And you are not a child.”

Zuko bristled out of habit. “I know.”

Iroh nodded. “Then I will ask you directly.”

He leaned forward a little, not stern—just serious in that way that made Zuko listen even when he didn’t want to.

“Do you want Jet to be under your direction now?” Iroh asked. “Not as my arrangement. Yours.”

Zuko blinked, thrown. “What.”

Iroh lifted a hand, patient. “Not ownership, Zuko. Not like a thing. A person is not owned.”

His eyes stayed steady on Zuko’s. “I mean responsibility. Authority. Consent between you both. If Jet is to remain with us, he should know clearly who he answers to day-to-day.”

Zuko stared at the table, throat tight.

Because part of him wanted to scoff and say it doesn’t matter. Part of him wanted to snap that he didn’t need anyone. Part of him wanted to say that Jet already acted like he was in charge anyway.

But another part—older, quieter—remembered the palace halls. Jet walking behind him without being asked. Jet taking the blame when Zuko broke something. Jet showing up outside the training room the day Zuko’s scar was still fresh, standing too close and saying nothing because anything would’ve been dangerous to say.

Zuko’s fingers curled around the warm cup.

“Why are you asking me this now?” Zuko said, voice rough.

Iroh’s expression softened. “Because you are trying to build a life,” he said. “And a life cannot be built on confusion.”

Zuko swallowed. “Jet’s not confused.”

Iroh hummed. “Jet is… many things.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “But he is not immune to feeling displaced.”

Zuko’s stomach tightened. Displaced. Like a guard without a post. Like a person who’d made protecting Zuko his purpose for so long that he didn’t know what he was without it.

Zuko looked away, jaw working. “He’s annoying.”

Iroh’s eyes twinkled. “Yes.”

“He follows me around.”

“Yes.”

“He acts like I’m going to fall into a sewer the second he turns his back.”

Iroh nodded solemnly. “A reasonable concern in the Lower Ring.”

Zuko shot him a glare that didn’t last. His shoulders sagged a fraction.

“I don’t… want him to leave,” Zuko admitted, so quietly it almost didn’t count as words.

Iroh’s face went very still—no teasing, no warmth used as a shield. Just understanding.

“Then say so,” Iroh murmured.

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “I’m saying it now.”

Iroh nodded once. “Good.”

Silence sat with them a moment, filled only by the distant sounds of the city waking up.

Then Iroh asked again, gently but firmly: “Do you want Jet to be under your direction?”

Zuko stared down at the tea. He didn’t want to be a prince. He didn’t want to give orders like his father. He didn’t want power if it meant becoming the kind of person who used others.

But this wasn’t that.

This was something else: choosing, clearly, not out of pride—but out of responsibility. Out of care he didn’t know how to name.

Zuko exhaled.

“Yes,” he said.

The word felt heavy. Like picking up a blade you weren’t sure you deserved to carry.

Iroh’s shoulders relaxed, like a knot had finally come undone. “Then I will speak with him when he returns,” he said. “We will make it clear: he reports to you, and you—” Iroh’s gaze held Zuko’s, meaningful “—treat him as a person with his own will.”

Zuko scowled. “I know.”

Iroh smiled. “I know you know. But it is good to say it out loud.”

Zuko took a sip of tea just to have something to do with his hands.

A beat later, he muttered, “He’s going to hate this.”

Iroh chuckled softly. “Perhaps.” Then, more quietly, “Or perhaps he will finally feel like he belongs where he stands.”

Zuko didn’t answer, but his chest tightened in that unpleasant, familiar way.

Outside, footsteps sounded on the stairs—steady, purposeful.

The door opened.

Jet stepped in with a sack of groceries slung over one shoulder, cheeks cold-pinked from the wind. He paused the second he saw them both at the table, the atmosphere different.

“What,” Jet said flatly, eyes narrowing, “did I miss.”

Zuko’s throat went tight.

Iroh smiled like nothing in the world was sharper than tea leaves. “Welcome back, Jet,” he said pleasantly. “We were just discussing some… housekeeping.”

Jet’s gaze flicked to Zuko, searching his face.

Zuko set his cup down carefully.

“Jet,” he said, trying to make his voice steady, “we need to talk.”

Jet didn’t move from the doorway.

The sack of groceries hung from his shoulder like he’d forgotten it was there. His eyes locked on Zuko, sharp and wary in that way that made Zuko feel like he was twelve again and about to be told he’d done something wrong.

“What kind of talk,” Jet said, flat.

Zuko’s mouth felt dry. He hated talks. Talks were traps. Talks were how people cornered you into saying things you couldn’t take back.

Iroh, of course, looked serenely pleased with himself, hands folded around his tea cup like he was watching a koi pond.

Zuko forced himself to keep his voice steady. “Come in.”

Jet’s gaze flicked to Iroh—quick, assessing—then back to Zuko. Slowly, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him with his foot.

The latch clicked.

Jet set the groceries down on the table a little too hard. “Okay. Talk.”

Zuko glanced at Iroh, a silent don’t make this worse.

Iroh’s smile didn’t change. “I will simply listen,” he promised, which meant he absolutely would not.

Zuko took a breath, then said, “Uncle and I were talking about… you.”

Jet’s posture shifted instantly—subtle, but Zuko caught it. A guarded straightening. Like he was bracing for a new set of rules.

“About my performance?” Jet asked, too formal.

Zuko frowned. “No.”

Jet’s eyes narrowed. “Then what.”

Iroh sipped his tea. “About clarity,” he said mildly.

Jet shot him a look. “Clarity usually means someone’s about to give me an order.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”

Jet’s gaze snapped back to him. “It’s always like that in your family.”

The words landed sharp.

Zuko’s fists clenched reflexively, but he forced himself not to flare. This wasn’t the kind of fight he could win by being louder.

He exhaled slowly. “I’m not my father.”

Jet didn’t answer right away. His face didn’t change, but something tightened near his eyes like the statement hit a bruise.

Iroh set his cup down gently. “Jet,” he said, “when you were assigned to Zuko in the palace, the arrangement was under my authority.”

Jet’s jaw flexed. “I know.”

“And now,” Iroh continued, “we are not in the palace.”

Jet’s eyes flicked to the cracked wall, the cramped room, the threadbare mats. “Yeah,” he said, voice rougher. “I noticed.”

Zuko swallowed. “Uncle asked me—” he hesitated, hating the wording, “—if I want you under my direction. Like… officially. Not just because Uncle said so.”

Jet went very still.

For a second, Zuko thought he’d misjudged it. Thought Jet would laugh, or sneer, or immediately shut down.

Instead Jet’s gaze dropped—not to the floor, but to the space between them, like he was checking for the safest way to stand.

“Under your direction,” Jet repeated, careful. “You mean you want me reporting to you. You want the leash in your hand.”

Zuko flinched at the phrasing. “No.”

Jet’s eyes snapped up. “Then explain.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. This was the part he hated—the part where he had to put something soft into words and hope it didn’t get used against him.

“I don’t want you disappearing because Uncle told you to,” Zuko said, voice low. “And I don’t want you hovering because you think you have to. I just—” He forced the next words out. “I want it to be clear. Between us.”

Jet’s expression flickered—surprise, then suspicion. “Clear how.”

Zuko stared at him. “That you’re here because you choose to be.”

Jet’s brows knit. “That’s… not how this works.”

“It is if I say it is,” Zuko snapped, then immediately regretted the tone. He took a breath and tried again, quieter. “I’m not ordering you. I’m asking.”

Jet’s eyes searched his face like he was hunting for the lie.

Iroh spoke softly, cutting through the tension. “Jet, Zuko agreed to take responsibility for the arrangement. That means Zuko will set your day-to-day direction.” He paused, then added, pointedly, “It also means Zuko must treat you with respect. And you are free to refuse anything that violates your conscience.”

Jet’s mouth tightened. “And if I refuse?”

“Then we talk,” Iroh said calmly. “Like adults.”

Jet let out a humorless breath. “That’ll be new.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “I can do it.”

Jet’s gaze flicked to him, sharp. “Can you?”

Zuko held it. “Yes.”

Silence stretched.

Then Jet said, very quietly, “You want this because of the girl.”

Zuko’s face heated instantly. “What? No.”

Jet’s eyes didn’t soften. “You want me taking orders from you because you don’t want Iroh controlling when I ‘give you space’ while you go play normal.”

Zuko opened his mouth to argue—

—and realized Jet wasn’t entirely wrong.

Zuko’s voice came out rough. “Partly.”

Jet’s expression tightened, like the honesty made it worse. “And if she gets you noticed?”

Zuko’s hands curled. “I’m being careful.”

“You’re not,” Jet said, sharper now. “You’re—” He cut himself off, jaw working, anger trying to become something else. His eyes flicked away briefly. “You’re happy. And happy makes you sloppy.”

Zuko stared at him. “That’s not fair.”

Jet’s laugh was short and bitter. “You think fair exists?”

Zuko’s temper flared, then guttered out under the weight of Jet’s obvious exhaustion.

He took a step closer, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t wake the whole building—so it would stay between them.

“I don’t want you gone,” Zuko said. “I don’t want you suffocating me either. I want you… with me. Not behind Uncle. Not behind my father. With me.”

Jet froze again.

For the first time since Zuko had known him—palace halls, war camps, ship decks—Jet looked genuinely unsure.

His voice came out tight. “And what does ‘with you’ mean, exactly?”

Zuko swallowed. The simplest answer was the one that scared him most.

“It means you answer to me,” Zuko said. “But you’re not a thing. You’re not a weapon. You’re… Jet.”

Jet’s eyes flickered at his own name in Zuko’s mouth, like it was unfamiliar in that context.

Iroh watched quietly, expression unreadable.

Jet stared at Zuko for a long beat, then said, “You can’t just—” He exhaled sharply, frustrated. “You can’t just decide to be decent and expect everyone to trust it.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “I’m not expecting trust. I’m expecting—” He searched for the word, found it. “Agreement.”

Jet’s gaze dropped to the table, to the groceries, to the cheap paper wrapping. Then back up.

“If I say no,” Jet said, voice flat, “do you make me leave?”

Zuko’s chest tightened. “No.”

Jet’s mouth twitched, almost pained. “And if I say yes… do I still get to call you an idiot when you act like one?”

Zuko blinked, thrown.

Iroh coughed into his hand, suspiciously like a laugh.

Zuko scowled. “You already do.”

Jet’s eyes stayed on him. “Answer.”

Zuko’s lips pressed into a thin line, then he muttered, “Yes.”

Jet’s shoulders loosened a fraction, the tiniest release. “Good.”

Zuko stared. “Is that… your condition?”

Jet tilted his head. “My condition is you don’t turn into Ozai just because you finally have authority over something.”

The name hit like a punch. Zuko’s eyes flashed. “I won’t.”

Jet held his gaze. “Swear it.”

Zuko’s throat tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I swear.”

Another long pause.

Then Jet nodded once, sharp and decisive—like he’d chosen a direction in a fight.

“Fine,” Jet said. “I’ll answer to you. Officially. Not because Iroh says so.”

Zuko’s breath caught. “Yeah?”

Jet’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Zuko swallowed, then said, quieter, “I won’t.”

Jet reached into his coat and pulled out a folded paper—small, stamped. He dropped it on the table.

“What’s that?” Zuko asked.

Jet’s mouth twisted. “Groceries list. Also…” He hesitated, then added gruffly, “The shop owner’s permit renewal form. He mentioned it yesterday. I grabbed it before someone else ‘helpful’ did.”

Iroh’s eyes warmed. “How thoughtful.”

Jet shot him a glare. “Don’t.”

Iroh smiled anyway.

Zuko stared at the paper, then at Jet. “You did that for us.”

Jet looked away. “For the job.”

Zuko’s mouth tightened. He wanted to say thank you and hated that he wanted to.

So he settled for, “Okay.”

Jet nodded like that was enough. Then, as if he couldn’t stand the softness in the room for another second, he added with a faint edge, “So. Now that I ‘answer to you’… do you want to set any rules, Lee?”

Zuko’s glare snapped up. “Don’t call me that.”

Jet’s eyes flicked, amused. “You’re the boss now. Make me stop.”

Zuko scoffed, but it came out less sharp than usual. “Rule one: stop being smug.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “Can’t. It’s my natural state.”

Iroh’s chuckle was warm as tea. “Ahh,” he murmured, “a productive conversation.”

Jet rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.

Zuko looked at Jet—really looked—and felt something settle into place, uneasy but real. Not ownership. Not control.

A choice.

“Okay,” Zuko said again, softer. “Then… we’re agreed.”

Jet met his eyes and gave a single, formal nod—old palace training, clean and precise.

“Yes, Prince—”

Zuko’s scar twitched. “Don’t.”

Jet’s gaze held steady, and after a beat he corrected, voice quieter.

“Yes,” Jet said. “Zuko.”

And that, somehow, felt like the most official thing in the room.

Chapter Text

The tea shop was loud in the way Zuko was starting to recognize—cups clinking, the kettle’s steady hiss, the low murmur of people who wanted warmth more than conversation.

Iroh thrived in it.

He floated from table to table with a tray and a smile, offering refills like he was dispensing peace by the cup. Zuko stayed behind the counter, measuring leaves, pouring water, keeping his face blank. When customers praised the tea, he pretended he didn’t hear.

Jet drifted in and out of the doorway like a restless shadow, “getting fresh air” while his eyes counted exits and strangers. Zuko tried not to look at him too often.

It was almost—almost—normal.

By late afternoon, the rush thinned. Iroh flipped the sign and started wiping down tables, humming under his breath.

“Good work today,” he said, casual.

Zuko grunted. “It was work.”

Iroh’s smile stayed soft. “Yes. And you did it well.”

Zuko didn’t answer. Compliments still felt like traps.

He stepped outside to dump a bucket of rinse water into the gutter, letting the cold air bite the heat off his face. The street was busy with end-of-day movement: vendors packing up, kids chasing each other between carts, a man calling out last prices on bruised fruit.

And that’s when he saw it.

A poster nailed crookedly to a wooden pole, edges flapping in the wind.

A drawing—too neat to be a Lower Ring advertisement—of a flying bison with a sad, rounded face. Beneath it, bold letters:

MISSING: APPA
REWARD
PLEASE CONTACT—

Zuko’s breath caught.

His eyes dropped to the figure printed in the corner—smaller, but unmistakable.

A bald kid with an arrow on his head.

The Avatar.

Zuko’s fingers tightened around the bucket handle until it creaked.

For a heartbeat, he wasn’t standing in the Lower Ring anymore. He was back on the deck of his ship, salt wind in his face, the memory of storms and chase and failure burning behind his ribs. The Avatar slipping away again. Always slipping away.

His pulse began to pound, hot and familiar.

This is it.

If Aang was putting up posters, he was here. Or close. And if Appa was missing, the Avatar would be desperate—reckless—easier to find.

Zuko stepped closer to the poster, studying the tear marks, the smudged ink. Someone had been peeling at the corners, maybe trying to remove it. Maybe trying to hide it.

Or maybe just bored.

He didn’t know which possibility made him angrier.

“Lee?”

Iroh’s voice came from behind him, gentle.

Zuko flinched at the name, then didn’t correct it. He didn’t turn around right away, afraid of what Iroh’s face would look like when he saw what Zuko was looking at.

Iroh came up beside him and followed his gaze to the poster.

His expression didn’t change much—only the smallest shift around the eyes, like a cloud passing over sun.

“Ah,” Iroh murmured. “So.”

Zuko swallowed. His voice came out tight. “He’s here.”

Iroh didn’t deny it.

Zuko’s mind raced ahead, already building a plan out of scraps: ask around. Watch the message boards. Follow the trail of posters. Find the boy. Capture him.

Go home.

His chest tightened painfully at the thought—because “home” wasn’t warm anymore. It was a throne room and a scar and a voice that had called him weak.

But it was still the only ending he’d ever been allowed to imagine.

Zuko yanked the poster off the pole in one sharp motion. The nail screeched. Paper tore a little at the top.

Iroh’s brows lifted. “Zuko—”

Zuko held it up, shaking slightly—not from the cold. “This is what we’ve been waiting for. This is the point of all of this. We can stop—” he gestured back at the shop like it offended him “—wasting time.”

Iroh looked at the poster for a long moment, then at Zuko. “Is that how you truly feel? That your days here have been a waste?”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “They weren’t the mission.”

Iroh’s voice stayed calm. “And yet you have been eating regularly. Sleeping indoors. Speaking to people who do not fear you.” His eyes softened. “You have been… living.”

Zuko’s grip tightened. “That doesn’t matter if I don’t finish what I started.”

Iroh’s gaze flicked, briefly, toward Zuko’s hands—white-knuckled on the paper. Toward the tremor in his arms that Zuko refused to acknowledge.

“It matters,” Iroh said quietly. “More than you know.”

Zuko’s throat burned. “You don’t understand.”

Iroh exhaled, slow. “I understand that you are being pulled in two directions.” He nodded toward the poster. “One by your past.”

Then he nodded back toward the tea shop. “And one by your future.”

Zuko snapped, “I don’t have a future.”

Iroh’s eyes held his. “You do.”

Zuko looked away first, breathing hard, staring at the drawing of Appa—so innocent it made him feel briefly sick.

Appa wasn’t a weapon. The bison was just… an animal. A friend.

Zuko swallowed, anger shifting uncomfortably into something else. “If the Avatar’s here,” he said, quieter, “I can’t just ignore it.”

Iroh’s voice was gentle. “No. You cannot.”

Zuko blinked, startled.

Iroh continued, “But you can decide how you respond. You can decide whether you will chase this because it is right… or because you are afraid of who you are without the chase.”

Zuko’s fingers crumpled the edge of the poster.

From the far side of the street, a familiar presence moved—Jet, watching from a distance, posture alert. His eyes locked on the poster immediately, then on Zuko’s face. He didn’t come closer. He didn’t interrupt.

But he saw.

And that made Zuko feel exposed in a way he hated.

Zuko stared at the poster again, at the word MISSING, and felt something twist in his chest.

Aang was looking for his friend.

And Zuko—Zuko was looking for a way back to a father who never wanted him.

He folded the poster slowly, careful despite himself, as if roughness might make the truth sharper.

“I’m going to find him,” Zuko said, voice low.

Iroh didn’t move. “And then?”

Zuko’s answer didn’t come immediately this time.

His eyes tracked the street, the people, the life he’d been pretending he didn’t have. He thought of Jin’s smile. Of the lantern fountain. Of Jet in the dark saying Don’t make me regret it.

Zuko’s mouth tightened.

“…Then we’ll see,” he said.

Iroh studied him, then nodded once, like he’d been given the only honest answer Zuko could manage.

“Very well,” Iroh said softly. “But remember, nephew—when you hunt a lost creature… you must be careful not to become the thing that made it run.”

Zuko didn’t reply.

Zuko didn’t sleep.

He told himself it was because the city was too loud, because the apartment was too small, because the air tasted like coal and damp stone.

But it was the poster folded under his shirt—pressed against his ribs like a brand—that kept him awake.

By morning, he had a plan.

Not a good one. Not a safe one.

A plan that felt like familiar ground.

He moved through the Lower Ring like a shadow, asking questions the way he’d learned to: indirectly, with the right amount of distance, with coins when words didn’t work. He followed rumors that didn’t sound like rumors—too consistent, too fearful.

A big animal.
White fur.
They dragged it at night.
Toward the lake.

By late afternoon he’d walked far enough that the city started to thin. Buildings grew wider-spaced, the street noise softer. Ba Sing Se’s walls still loomed in the distance, but the air changed—colder, wetter, carrying the smell of stagnant water.

Lake Laogai.

Even the name felt wrong in his mouth, like a warning you weren’t supposed to say out loud.

Zuko kept his head down as he approached. The path turned muddy near the reeds, and the lake itself spread out dark and flat under a gray sky. Mist hugged the surface like breath.

There were no vendors here. No children. No laughter.

Only silence… and the feeling of being watched.

He stopped at the edge of the treeline.

Across the water, half-hidden by reeds and haze, rose a structure that didn’t belong: stone walls, arched entrances, an old compound that looked abandoned until you noticed how maintained it was. The paths were too clear. The gates too intact.

And there—faint but unmistakable—were tracks pressed into the damp ground.

Not human.

Heavy. Wide.

Appa.

Zuko crouched, fingers hovering over the impression like he could feel heat in it. The track was fresh enough that the mud still glistened.

His pulse picked up.

He raised his eyes and stared at the compound.

Every instinct screamed at him to move forward. To slip inside. To finish the hunt.

But another instinct—newer, quieter—stayed his feet.

Because this wasn’t a ship or a fortress or a battlefield.

This was something else.

The air around the lake felt wrong. Like the city itself didn’t want you here. Like stepping across an invisible line would mean you couldn’t step back out the same person.

Zuko straightened slowly.

He could almost picture it: dark hallways, hidden guards, secrets buried under stone. If Appa was here, then the Avatar would come here too. Zuko could wait. Ambush. Take him.

It would be… simple.

So why did his stomach twist like he was walking toward a cliff?

A rustle sounded in the reeds.

Zuko’s hand snapped to the knife at his belt—

—but it was only a turtle-duck waddling through the mud, unimpressed with his panic. It blinked at him, then kept going.

Zuko let out a harsh breath through his nose.

He stared again at the compound, at the gates, at the mist.

Then, finally, he stepped back.

Not running.

Not retreating in fear.

Choosing—just for now—not to cross that line.

He memorized the path. The angle of the sun. The placement of stones. The way the reeds parted in the wind.

And then he turned around and walked away.

By the time he reached the Lower Ring again, the sky was darkening. Lanterns flickered to life in windows. The city felt too loud after the lake’s dead quiet.

His legs ached. His hands were cold.

He climbed the stairs to the apartment and pushed the door open.

Warmth hit him—thin, but real.

Iroh was at the table with a kettle and two cups, as if he’d been expecting this exact moment. The apartment smelled like tea and something fried—food saved, waiting.

Jet was by the window, posture rigid, eyes cutting immediately to Zuko’s face.

“You’re late,” Jet said, voice flat.

Zuko shut the door slowly behind him, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah.”

Iroh’s gaze flicked over Zuko—mud on his boots, tension in his shoulders, the way his hands hovered too close to his sides like he’d been ready to draw a weapon.

“You went far,” Iroh said softly.

Zuko didn’t answer.

Jet took two steps forward, annoyance sharpened into suspicion. “Where.”

Zuko exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched. He pulled the folded poster out from under his shirt and tossed it onto the table.

Jet’s eyes snapped to it—then narrowed. “Avatar.”

Iroh’s face didn’t change, but his eyes softened with a quiet sadness. “You found something.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. He sank onto the edge of his mat like his legs had finally remembered they were tired.

“Appa,” Zuko said, voice rough. “I tracked him.”

Jet went still. “Where.”

Zuko stared at the floorboards for a beat too long.

“Lake Laogai.”

The room changed.

Even Iroh’s calm shifted—subtle but real, like the air itself had tightened around the name.

Jet’s jaw flexed. “You went there alone?”

Zuko’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “Yes.”

Jet’s anger sparked hot. “That’s—”

“—stupid,” Zuko finished for him, bitter. “I know.”

Jet stared at him, then said, quieter, “Did you go in.”

Zuko’s hands curled into fists. He could still smell the lake on himself.

“No,” he said.

Jet’s brows knit, disbelief and irritation colliding. “Why not?”

Zuko’s mouth tightened. He didn’t have a clean answer.

Because he’d felt watched.
Because the place had felt wrong.
Because for a second, he’d imagined coming back covered in someone else’s blood—and Jin’s face had flashed in his mind, smiling.

Because he’d been afraid of what he’d do if he stepped inside.

“I… didn’t,” Zuko said instead, voice low.

Jet studied him like he was trying to find the missing piece. “You had him,” Jet murmured, almost to himself. “You had a lead and you just—turned around.”

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “I can still go back.”

Iroh’s voice cut in gently. “But you did not.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched, anger rising because Iroh’s tone sounded almost proud, and Zuko didn’t want that kind of pride. Not for hesitation.

Jet’s gaze stayed on him, sharp but not mocking now. “So what’s the plan.”

Zuko stared at the folded poster on the table. The crude drawing of Appa looked ridiculous in the dim candlelight.

His voice came out quiet, strained. “I don’t know.”

The admission hung in the air, heavy as wet clothes.

Iroh poured tea without speaking, the sound of water soothing and maddening at the same time. He slid a cup toward Zuko.

Zuko didn’t take it right away.

Jet didn’t move either. He looked like he wanted to argue, to demand, to drag Zuko back to certainty by force if he had to.

But he didn’t.

Instead he said, controlled, “Next time you don’t go alone.”

Zuko’s eyes lifted, sharp. “I told you I didn’t need—”

Jet’s gaze cut through him. “Not negotiable.”

Zuko bristled—

—and then, tired and irritated and too aware of the lake’s silence still clinging to him, he muttered, “Fine.”

Jet’s shoulders loosened a fraction, like that single word mattered more than Zuko wanted it to.

Iroh’s voice was soft. “You came home,” he said.

Zuko’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

He reached for the tea cup and wrapped his hands around it, letting the warmth sink into his palms like an anchor.

“Yeah,” Zuko said, quieter. “I came home.”

And for once, the word didn’t only mean the palace.

Chapter Text

They went out again three nights later.

Zuko told himself it was because Jin had asked so casually—like it was the most natural thing in the world to want his company—and because saying no would have been suspicious. Because normal people went on walks. Because Lee went on walks.

None of that was the real reason.

Jin met him outside the tea shop just after closing, scarf tucked up to her nose and hands bouncing at her sides like she was trying not to look too excited.

“You’re free?” she asked, eyes bright.

Zuko nodded. “For a bit.”

“That’s all I need,” Jin said, and smiled like she’d won something.

They walked through the Lower Ring, past noodle stands and vendors and a musician warming his fingers over a brazier. Jin talked about everything and nothing—an argument she’d overheard, a neighbor’s new baby, a little shop that sold dumplings shaped like badgermoles.

Zuko listened more than he spoke, but he didn’t mind the silence the way he usually did. With Jin, silence felt like space you could breathe in, not a threat.

They ended up with hot skewers again, sitting on a low wall near a narrow side street. The lantern light made Jin’s face look softer, and Zuko’s chest felt annoyingly tight when she laughed.

Jin took a bite and hummed happily. “Okay, that’s officially my favorite.”

Zuko glanced at her. “You say that about everything.”

“That’s because everything is surprisingly good when you’re not starving,” Jin said, then paused, studying him with that quiet, too-perceptive focus she had sometimes. “Can I ask you something?”

Zuko stiffened automatically. “Depends.”

Jin smiled like she’d expected that. “You always look like you’re ready to run or fight. Like you’ve been… somewhere else.”

Zuko’s grip tightened on the skewer. “I’ve been places.”

Jin nodded slowly. “I thought so.”

She hesitated, then asked, carefully but directly—like ripping off a bandage: “What do you think about the war?”

Zuko froze.

The skewer stopped halfway to his mouth. His throat went dry so fast it felt like he’d swallowed sand.

Jin kept her voice light, but her eyes weren’t. “I mean… outside Ba Sing Se. The Fire Nation. Everything.”

Zuko stared at the street. At the lanterns. At the shadows tucked into corners.

His mind flashed—ships cutting through water, smoke rising, the crack of firebending on stone. His father’s voice like a blade. His own name like a chain.

He tried to keep his face blank. “I don’t know.”

Jin blinked. “You don’t know?”

Zuko’s heart pounded. He could feel the lie sitting in his mouth like poison. He didn’t know how to answer without destroying everything.

Jin shifted on the wall, swinging her feet slightly. “Well…” She shrugged, then gave a small, rehearsed smile, like she was repeating something she’d heard her whole life. “There is no war in Ba Sing Se.”

The phrase landed strange, too smooth.

Zuko’s eyes narrowed before he could stop them. “Right.”

Jin took another bite, then continued, voice turning sharper with conviction. “But even if there was a war, the Fire Nation is horrible.”

Zuko’s breath hitched, small and involuntary.

Jin didn’t notice—or pretended not to. She waved a hand like she was swatting away something foul. “My cousin lives outside the wall, in the Middle Ring, and he said his friend’s family came in from a village that got burned. Like—burned. Gone.” Her mouth twisted. “They do that to people.”

Zuko’s fingers went numb around the skewer.

Jin’s eyes flicked to him, and her expression softened suddenly, like she’d realized she’d gotten intense. “Sorry,” she said. “I just… it makes me mad.”

Zuko forced air into his lungs. “It should.”

Jin nodded, then—without thinking, casual as a gesture—lifted her hand and motioned toward Zuko’s face.

Toward his scar.

“Like that,” she said, voice full of quiet disgust. “They do things like that and they don’t care. It’s monstrous.”

The world tilted.

Zuko’s skin went cold and hot at the same time, blood rushing in his ears. His hand snapped up reflexively, not to grab her wrist—he didn’t touch her—but to cover the scar as if he could hide it from the air.

Jin froze the moment she saw his reaction.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Her eyes widened. Her hand dropped slowly back to her lap, fingers curling into her scarf like she wished she could rewind the last ten seconds.

“I—Lee, I didn’t mean—” Jin’s voice faltered. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t— I wasn’t talking about you.”

Zuko couldn’t speak.

Because she had been. Not about him specifically—but about what he was, what he came from, what people saw when they looked at him.

He stared at the ground, jaw locked so tight it hurt.

Jin leaned forward, careful, like she was approaching an injured animal. “That scar…,” she said softly. “Did… did the Fire Nation do that to you?”

Zuko’s chest tightened so hard he could barely breathe.

He could lie. He should lie. The lie was right there.

But his throat wouldn’t form it.

Jin’s voice turned even gentler. “You don’t have to tell me. I just—” She swallowed. “I’m sorry I pointed. That was awful.”

Zuko forced himself to look at her.

Jin’s eyes were bright and earnest and full of regret, not fear. She looked like she wanted to fix it but didn’t know how.

The anger he expected—at her, at the city, at the whole stupid conversation—didn’t come.

Just that tight, aching feeling of being seen wrong.

“It’s… fine,” Zuko managed, the words coming out rough.

Jin shook her head immediately. “No. It’s not. I was rude.”

Zuko’s hand lowered slowly from his scar. The skin felt exposed without his palm over it.

He swallowed hard. “People stare.”

Jin’s face softened with something like shame. “I shouldn’t have.”

Zuko’s voice came out quieter than he intended. “It’s not your fault.”

Jin shook her head again, stubborn. “It is.”

She reached out, hesitated, then lightly touched his sleeve near his wrist—careful, asking permission without words.

Zuko didn’t pull away.

“I don’t think you’re horrible,” Jin said, voice steady now. “Okay? I think you’re… you. And you’re kind of weird and quiet and you make tea like it’s a military operation.” Her mouth trembled into a small smile. “And I like you.”

Zuko’s throat tightened painfully.

He stared at her fingers on his sleeve like they were something fragile.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, because it was the only defense he had.

Jin’s eyes didn’t waver. “Too late.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The Lower Ring noise carried on around them—vendors calling out, footsteps, distant laughter—like the city didn’t understand it had stepped into something delicate.

Zuko exhaled slowly, trying to stop his hands from shaking.

Jin squeezed his sleeve once, gentle. “Can we… change the subject?”

Zuko nodded, stiff. “Yeah.”

Jin offered him the last bite of her skewer like a peace treaty. “Here. Eat this. You look like you forgot how.”

Zuko huffed a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. He took it.

Jin smiled, relieved, and leaned her shoulder lightly into his.

Above the street, a shadow moved along a rooftop line—watchful, distant. Jet, keeping his post, eyes tracking Zuko’s posture, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand had flown to his scar.

Jet didn’t intervene.

But he didn’t look away either.

Down below, Jin kept talking—about dumplings, about lanterns, about anything that wasn’t war—trying to stitch the moment back together with ordinary words.

Zuko listened, swallowing each one like it might anchor him to “Lee” for a little longer.

Zuko didn’t speak much on the walk back.

Jin kept things light—she tried, anyway—pointing out a vendor who’d fallen asleep on his stool, laughing softly at a pair of kids chasing each other with paper streamers. Zuko answered when he had to, nodded when he couldn’t trust his voice.

At her corner, Jin squeezed his sleeve again like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

“Goodnight, Lee,” she said, careful and warm.

Zuko swallowed. “Goodnight.”

She leaned up and kissed him—quick, sweet, a promise more than a question. When she stepped back, she was smiling like she’d decided the world could be gentle if she insisted hard enough.

Zuko watched her go until the street swallowed her.

Only then did he exhale.

He turned toward home—and felt it immediately: that familiar presence, distant but constant.

A shadow on a roofline. A set of eyes that missed nothing.

Zuko didn’t look up. He didn’t have to.

Instead, as he passed beneath a lantern, he lifted two fingers briefly—an old signal, sharp and practiced—and flicked them in a small motion: Follow.

A beat later, soft footfalls met his pace.

Jet fell in beside him from the alley like he’d been there the whole time.

“You’re getting bold,” Jet said quietly.

Zuko kept walking. “I’m getting tired.”

Jet’s gaze slid over him, quick assessment. “She said something.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “We’re not talking about her.”

Jet made a small sound, not quite agreement, not quite disapproval. “Fine.”

They walked in silence for half a block, the Lower Ring thinning around them as the hour got later. A cart rolled past. Somewhere a dog barked once, then settled.

Zuko glanced sideways. “I want to find the Avatar.”

Jet’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Tonight?”

“Yes.”

Jet didn’t argue. That was what made Zuko’s shoulders tense—Jet saved his arguments for when they mattered. “You have a lead?”

Zuko pulled the folded poster from inside his coat and handed it over. Jet didn’t need to unfold it fully; the edge of Appa’s face and the bold MISSING were enough.

Jet’s mouth tightened. “So you’re back on this.”

Zuko’s voice came out hard. “I never stopped.”

Jet studied him for a moment, then handed the poster back. “Okay. Then we do it smart.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

Jet nodded toward the street. “Meaning we don’t go charging around in the dark like amateurs. We look for patterns.”

Zuko’s patience frayed. “Jet—”

Jet cut him off, controlled. “Listen. If Aang’s putting up posters, he’s desperate. Desperate people take risks, but they also do predictable things.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Such as.”

Jet’s eyes flicked over the buildings, the poles, the walls where paper notices clustered. “He’ll hit the same message boards. Same busy crossings. Places where people actually look.” He paused. “And he’ll avoid the Dai Li if he’s smart.”

Zuko’s stomach tightened at the name. He didn’t say it out loud. The lake still clung to his skin in memory.

They moved through the Lower Ring with purpose—checking poles, scanning walls, slipping down alleys where new notices went up. Zuko’s eyes snagged on every Appa sketch, every smear of paste, every corner that looked freshly disturbed.

A few posters had been torn down. Some had been scribbled over.

One had “NO FLYING ANIMALS” written across it in angry charcoal.

Zuko stared at it too long, heat building behind his ribs.

Jet caught the look and nudged him forward. “Focus.”

They circled two streets, then three. Found nothing new besides the same damp paper and the same empty leads.

Finally Zuko stopped near a closed market stall, fists tightening inside his sleeves. “We’re wasting time.”

Zuko stopped there, half in shadow, and turned to face Jet fully.

“You know him,” Zuko said. “You know his group.”

Jet’s jaw worked. “Yeah.”

“You traveled with them,” Zuko pressed. “Before Ba Sing Se. Before… whatever Long Feng did to you.” He didn’t say brainwashed. The word sat in the air anyway.

Jet looked past him down the alley, eyes distant for a beat. “We ran together,” he said at last. “Me. Aang. Katara. The boy with the boomerang.”

“Sokka,” Zuko muttered, unable to stop himself.

Jet’s gaze snapped back, one brow lifting. “You remember his name?”

Zuko bristled. “I fought him. He’s annoying.”

“So are you,” Jet said mildly.

Zuko ignored that. “You got close.”

Jet huffed a short, humorless laugh. “Too close.”

There was a memory in the shape of his mouth—Katara’s name unspoken, but hanging between them anyway.

Zuko felt something unpleasant twist under his ribs.

“They trust you,” Zuko said, a little too sharply.

Jet’s eyes hardened. “They trusted me,” he corrected. “Past tense. And I betrayed that.”

“You told them the truth,” Zuko argued. “About the Fire Nation. About the occupation.”

“Yeah.” Jet’s grin was small and bitter. “Right before I tried to flood a town full of families.”

Zuko said nothing.

Jet glanced up at the slice of sky between rooftops. “Last time I saw Katara,” he said quietly, “she looked at me like I was someone she wished she’d never met.”

The jealousy flared before Zuko could stomp it down.

He pictured Jet with Katara—the way Jet could be charming when he wanted to, the easy smile he never gave Zuko but handed out like candy to everyone else. He pictured Katara’s laugh, bright and clear, directed at him.

His jaw clenched. “So you dated her.”

Jet’s lips twitched, surprised. “Is that what you’re stuck on right now?”

Zuko folded his arms. “You did.”

“We went on… walks,” Jet said, choosing his words carefully. “Shared stories. She smiled at me a lot.” He shrugged, glancing sideways at Zuko. “Sounds familiar.”

Zuko’s face heated. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Jet asked, too light.

Zuko glared at him. “She didn’t know who you really were.”

Jet’s expression flickered. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She didn’t.”

For a second, something raw sat between them—regret on Jet’s face, something tangled and sharp on Zuko’s.

Zuko looked away first.

“This isn’t about Katara,” he muttered. “We’re talking about Aang.”

Jet let him change the subject. “What’s your play?”

Zuko took a breath, forcing his thoughts into something like a plan.

“He’ll be looking near the walls,” Zuko said. “Anywhere Appa could be taken. He’ll be checking message boards, talking to any stable that’s seen a giant flying bison. He won’t be subtle.”

“Aang’s about as subtle as a fireworks show,” Jet agreed.

“You can find him,” Zuko said. “You know how he moves. You know her.” The last word came out a little harder than he intended.

Jet noticed.

His voice went quieter, more serious. “You’re asking me to approach them.”

Zuko nodded.

“As what?” Jet asked. “The guy they left behind? The one who tried to blow up a town? Or as the guy who just ‘happens’ to bump into them in the big safe city?”

Zuko’s fingers curled. “As someone they know,” he said. “Someone who can get close without raising alarms.”

Jet laughed under his breath. “That ship might’ve sailed.”

“You’re good at pretending,” Zuko snapped, then grimaced at his own words. “I mean—”

Jet held up a hand. “You’re not wrong. I can sell a story.”

He looked at Zuko, expression shading into something more guarded. “What do you want me to be to them? Reformed? Confused? Still brainwashed but trying?”

Zuko thought of Aang’s face on the poster, earnest and hopeful. Of Katara’s fury the times they’d clashed. Of Sokka’s suspicion. Of Toph’s bluntness.

“…Honest enough to be believable,” Zuko said at last. “Lie about us. Not about you.”

Jet let that sit for a moment.

Then the corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re getting better at this.”

Zuko scowled. “Shut up.”

“So.” Jet rocked back on his heels, mind already turning. “I ‘run into’ them tomorrow. Somewhere public. Somewhere they feel safe. I’m thinking near the upper market—those fruit stands Aang liked. Or one of the message boards where they’re posting those posters.” He nodded to himself. “I can make it look like I’ve been investigating where Appa went on my own. ‘Still trying to make up for my mistakes.’” His mouth twisted. “Not even entirely a lie.”

Zuko’s stomach knotted at the idea of Jet standing in front of Katara again, that old charm turned back on, easy smile and soft voice.

“You’ll be alone with them,” Zuko said, sharper than he meant. “No hooks. No me.”

Jet’s brows rose. “You don’t trust me?”

Zuko glared. “That’s not— Of course I trust you.”

Jet made a thoughtful sound. “You just don’t like the idea.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “…No.”

Jet’s grin turned a little smug. “Jealous, Your Highness?”

Zuko bristled. “Don’t call me that.”

“Jealous, then,” Jet amended.

“I’m not jealous,” Zuko snapped, too fast. “I just don’t want you screwing it up because you’re busy flirting.”

Jet barked a quiet laugh. “You think I’m going to flirt with the girl who water-whipped me into a wall the last time she saw me?”

“You flirt with everyone,” Zuko muttered. “It’s annoying.”

Jet tilted his head, studying him. “You don’t like the idea of me charming her again.”

Zuko opened his mouth—and stopped. The truth hovered, dangerous.

He looked away, shoulders tight. “Just… keep it about the mission.”

Finally Jet exhaled. “Tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll ‘run into’ them near the posters. Start a conversation. See how much they’re willing to tell the idiot who says he’s trying to make up for everything.”

He looked at Zuko. “You’ll be where?”

Zuko pictured it—Jet in the open, the Gaang around him, Aang’s expression open and wary. He pictured himself in shadow, watching.

“High ground,” Zuko said. “Roofline near the market. If something goes wrong, I’ll see it.”

Jet nodded. “You jumping in if they attack me?”

Zuko’s reply was immediate. “Yes.”

Jet’s lips twitched. “Good to know.”

He shifted back a step, shoulder brushing the wall. “Any other orders, boss?”

Zuko rolled his eyes, but the word didn’t sting as much as it once had. “Don’t call me boss.”

“Prince?” Jet offered, eyes glinting.

“Worse.”

“Zuko, then.” Jet said it simply, no titles, no edge.

Zuko glanced at him. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That.”

Jet’s gaze held his for a beat longer, something unspoken flickering there—loyalty, history, something messier than either of them could name.

Then Jet pushed off the wall. “Get some sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow’s going to be… complicated.”

Zuko snorted. “When is it not.”

Jet gave him a half-salute—old habit from palace days, made sloppy with time. “I’ll make contact. You watch my back. Same as always.”

Zuko nodded once. “Same as always.”

They walked back toward the apartment in silence, each turning over their own thoughts—the boy on the poster, the girl under lantern light, the waterbender with the fierce eyes, and the thin line between mission and the fragile, dangerous thing starting to grow between a prince in hiding and his infuriating, indispensable bodyguard.

Chapter Text

The next day, the Lower Ring market was loud enough to hide almost anything.

Vendors barked prices. Steam rose from carts. Someone’s kid was crying over a dropped bun. A musician plucked at a battered string instrument, the notes getting swallowed by the crowd.

Jet moved through it with the same practiced ease he used in forests—head up, eyes scanning, posture loose enough to look harmless. He’d swapped his hooks for a plain satchel and an ordinary coat, hair tucked under a cap. Just another young man in Ba Sing Se.

Just another lie.

Above, on a roofline across the street, Zuko crouched behind a chimney, watching the market like it was a battlefield. He kept his face blank, but his stomach was tight. He told himself it was strategy.

He didn’t like how much it felt like something else.

Jet slowed near one of the public boards where flyers were nailed in layers. “Lost cat.” “Work wanted.” “Room for rent.” And there—newly pasted over an old advertisement—was the same clean drawing:

MISSING: APPA

Jet didn’t touch it. He didn’t need to.

He waited.

And a moment later, the air shifted.

A kid’s laugh—too bright, too familiar—cut through the noise.

Jet turned his head like it was accidental.

Aang stood three stalls away, smaller than Jet remembered but somehow louder without trying. He held a brush and a pot of paste, smoothing another Appa poster onto a wall while Sokka hovered beside him, arms full of rolled papers and suspicion. Toph sat on a crate nearby, bare feet planted on the ground, expression bored but alert.

And Katara—

Katara stepped forward with a stack of posters hugged to her chest, brows drawn tight. The moment her eyes landed on Jet, her whole body went still.

For half a heartbeat, she looked stunned.

Then her face hardened like winter.

Jet lifted his hands slightly, palms open, showing empty. He offered his most careful voice, calm and neutral.

“Katara.”

Sokka’s boomerang was in his hand so fast it was almost funny. “Oh, no. Nope. Absolutely not. Not this guy.”

Aang’s eyes widened. “Jet?”

Toph’s head tilted a fraction, like she was listening to something under the words. “Oh. This is that Jet.”

Jet kept his posture loose. “Hey.”

Katara didn’t say a word.

The water skin at her hip snapped up into her hand.

Jet’s eyes flicked to it—just a flicker—and he didn’t move.

“Katara—” Aang started, uncertain.

Katara’s arm cut through the air.

The water lashed out in a clean, angry arc and slapped Jet square across the chest and shoulder, soaking him instantly. It wasn’t a lethal strike—more a punishment, a warning—but it carried all of her fury. Droplets sprayed the air and caught the sunlight like shattered glass.

Jet rocked back a step, blinking water out of his eyes.

The crowd around them startled and shuffled away, murmurs rising.

Sokka jabbed a finger at Jet. “Yeah! That’s for the whole ‘almost murdering a town’ thing!”

Jet’s jaw tightened. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, then straightened.

He didn’t reach for weapons. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t even glare.

He just looked at Katara—really looked—and his voice came out rougher than before.

“Fair,” he said quietly.

Katara’s eyes were blazing. “You don’t get to show up here like nothing happened.”

“I’m not pretending nothing happened,” Jet said. He swallowed, then forced his next words to stay level. “I’m saying I wasn’t expecting to see you. And I know you’re not going to welcome me.”

Toph snorted from her crate. “Understatement.”

Aang stepped forward a little, worry creasing his face. “Jet… are you okay? I mean—why are you here?”

Jet wiped his wet hair back with one hand. His cap dripped. “Because I heard you were looking for Appa.”

Katara’s grip on the water tightened. “And why would we trust anything you say?”

Jet’s mouth twitched, humorless. “You shouldn’t. Not automatically.”

Sokka made a sound of disbelief. “Wow. Self-awareness. Did the city give you that in a gift basket?”

Aang looked torn, gaze bouncing between Jet and Katara. “But—if Jet knows something about Appa—”

Katara snapped, “Aang.”

Aang quieted, but his eyes stayed on Jet, hopeful despite himself.

Jet took a careful breath and pitched his voice low enough that it felt like a confession instead of a speech.

“I’ve been asking around,” he said. “Not for a reward. Not for… whatever you think I’d want.” His eyes flicked to Katara’s face and then away, like it physically hurt to hold her gaze too long. “I heard a rumor about a large animal taken toward the outer edges. Toward the lake.”

Zuko’s shoulders went rigid on the rooftop.

Lake.

Katara’s expression didn’t soften. If anything it sharpened. “Lake Laogai,” she said, like the name tasted wrong.

Jet nodded once. “That’s what people said.”

Toph’s head lifted, attention sharpening. “That place feels… creepy.”

Sokka pointed his boomerang again. “Convenient. You show up, throw out a spooky rumor, and expect us to follow you somewhere isolated? Yeah, no. Absolutely not.”

Jet didn’t argue. He just kept his hands visible, voice controlled.

“I’m not asking you to follow me,” he said. “I’m telling you what I heard.”

Katara took a step closer, water coiling again at her hand like a living thing. “Why.”

Jet hesitated.

And in that pause, Zuko saw it: the flicker of something real under Jet’s practiced calm. Not charm. Not manipulation.

Regret.

“Because I owe you,” Jet said quietly. “And because I know what it’s like to lose a home.”

Katara’s eyes narrowed. “You tried to destroy someone else’s home.”

Jet flinched—just slightly—like the words landed exactly where they were supposed to.

“I know,” he said. “I live with that.”

Sokka barked, “Oh, please.”

Aang’s face fell a little, but he stepped forward anyway. “Jet… did you really change? Or are you just—”

Jet cut him off gently. “I’m not here to ask for forgiveness.” He looked at Aang directly. “I’m here because Appa matters to you. And… because you’re going to go to that lake whether I say anything or not.”

Toph hopped off the crate, landing lightly. “He’s not lying about thinking we’ll go,” she said flatly. “Aang’s basically vibrating.”

Aang flushed. “Toph—”

Katara’s gaze stayed locked on Jet, unreadable. “If you’re lying—”

Jet nodded once. “Then you can throw more water at me.”

Sokka sputtered. “That’s not a consequence, that’s a Tuesday.”

Katara’s jaw clenched. The water around her hand wavered, then settled back into the skin.

“Fine,” she said, cold. “We’ll check it out. But you’re not leading us anywhere. You’re not alone with Aang. And if you so much as blink weird—”

Jet gave a small, almost tired nod. “Understood.”

Aang’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you,” he said, earnest. “Really.”

Jet’s expression tightened at the gratitude, like he didn’t know where to put it. “Yeah.”

From the roofline, Zuko watched Katara turn back to the posters and bark orders at Sokka like she was trying to regain control of the situation through sheer force of will. He watched Aang paste another Appa flyer with trembling hands.

And he watched Jet stand there dripping, taking Katara’s anger without flinching.

Zuko told himself the tight feeling in his chest was about the mission.

He really tried.

Then Katara glanced up—briefly, scanning the rooftops like she sensed eyes on her.

Zuko ducked back behind the chimney, heart hammering.

Below, Jet’s gaze flicked upward too, just for a second, like he knew exactly where Zuko was.

Then he looked away and fell into step beside the group—not in front, not in charge.

Just close enough to be useful.

Just far enough to be tolerated.

And Zuko, hidden above them, felt the whole plan snap into motion like a drawn bowstring—dangerous, inevitable, and aimed at something he wasn’t sure he still wanted.

Lake Laogai looked worse in daylight.

The water lay flat and gray beneath a low ceiling of clouds, reeds whispering in the wind like they were trying to warn you away. The compound rose out of the mist on the far bank—stone arches and walls too intact to be abandoned, too quiet to be normal.

Aang stood at the edge of the muddy path, staring so hard it looked like he might pull Appa out of the lake by sheer hope.

“This is it,” Jet said, voice careful. “This is where the trail pointed.”

Katara’s eyes were narrowed to slits. “We know where the trail pointed,” she snapped. “That’s not the same as knowing anything.”

Sokka held his boomerang like it was itching for a reason. “Okay, Team Avatar, quick vote: do we believe the guy who tried to drown a town?”

“Pretty sure the vote is unanimous,” Toph muttered. Her bare feet pressed into the damp ground, face tilted toward the compound. “This place feels… wrong.”

Aang didn’t move. His hands were clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were white.

“Appa,” he whispered, like saying it out loud might make it real.

Jet watched him for a beat, something shadowed crossing his face. “We should move,” he said. “Before it gets darker.”

Katara shot him a look like a knife. “You don’t get to tell us what to do.”

Still, she gestured sharply. “Sokka—watch the lake side. Toph, stay close. Aang…”

Aang was already walking.

They crossed the narrow bridge and approached the compound as a group, their footsteps muffled by wet earth. The closer they got, the more the silence pressed in—no birds, no insects, nothing but the faint lap of water against stone.

The gates were open.

Not welcoming. Just… open. Like someone expected them.

Katara’s water skin came into her hand again, coil ready. Sokka scanned the shadows. Toph’s face tightened as if she could feel the air itself holding its breath.

Aang stepped inside first.

The courtyard beyond was empty. Too clean. Old stones, patched moss, and no signs of any animal large enough to shake the earth.

But Aang didn’t stop. He ran.

Through archways. Down corridors. Past locked doors and silent rooms. His voice echoed as he called Appa’s name again and again until it started to sound raw.

Katara followed, anxiety tightening her mouth into a hard line. Sokka and Toph kept pace, moving like they expected something to jump out of the walls.

Jet stayed slightly behind Aang—not leading, not hovering—eyes flicking constantly, like he was trying to spot the moment the trap snapped shut.

They searched for an hour.

Then two.

Stables that were empty. Storage rooms with nothing but dust. A courtyard with old pai sho tiles scattered like someone had walked away mid-game years ago. Chains on a wall that were too heavy for a person… but the floor beneath them showed no fresh drag marks. No tufts of fur. No bison prints.

No Appa.

By the time they circled back to the entry courtyard, Aang’s breathing was ragged. His face was pale. His eyes were wide with the kind of panic that had nowhere to go.

He looked at Jet as if Jet had physically stolen Appa from him.

“You said he was here,” Aang said, voice shaking.

Jet swallowed. “I said the trail led here.”

Aang’s hands trembled. “I came all this way—”

Katara stepped forward before Aang could fall apart fully, anger taking over like armor. “You dragged us out here,” she hissed at Jet. “Again. You got us chasing shadows while Appa is still out there, scared and alone.”

Sokka’s jaw clenched. “And if we’re wrong, Aang gets crushed. That’s your pattern, Jet. Big dramatic ‘cause,’ zero consequences for you.”

Toph crossed her arms. “He’s not lying right now,” she said bluntly. “But he also didn’t know what he was talking about.”

Jet’s face tightened, guilt mixing with frustration. “I’m not here to play games with you.”

Katara’s water rose, snapping into a sharp ribbon. “Then what are you doing here?”

Jet held still. He didn’t flinch from the water. He didn’t raise his hands this time, either.

“Trying,” he said quietly.

Katara blinked, thrown for half a second, then the anger rushed back in. “Trying isn’t enough.”

Aang’s voice cracked. “Appa could be anywhere.”

He looked like he might bolt again, like he might throw himself into the lake and swim until his lungs gave out.

Katara’s expression softened instantly toward him. “Aang…”

But Aang’s eyes stayed fixed on Jet, something burning there—betrayal and desperation tangled together.

“Just go,” Aang said. “Please. Just… leave.”

Jet’s jaw clenched.

This was the moment he’d expected. The moment the door closed and stayed closed.

He exhaled slowly, then nodded once.

“Okay,” he said.

Katara’s shoulders loosened a fraction—relief, maybe.

Then Jet looked at Aang again, voice low and steady.

“I’ll leave if you want,” he said. “But I’m not stopping.”

Aang blinked. “What.”

Jet’s gaze flicked over the compound one more time—calculating, scanning details the others didn’t want to see. “Appa was here,” he said, more to himself than to them. “At some point. That much is real.”

Sokka scoffed. “Based on what, your vibes?”

Jet ignored him. “This place is too clean. Too empty. Like someone cleared it out before we arrived.”

Katara’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying someone moved him?”

Jet nodded once. “I’m saying we were late.”

Aang’s face crumpled. “Then where did they take him?”

Jet looked at Aang and didn’t soften his answer. “Somewhere you weren’t supposed to find.”

Toph’s face tightened. “The whole lake area is crawling with… weird.” She tapped her foot lightly, listening with her soles. “And there’s a lot of people trying to pretend there’s nobody here.”

Katara’s breath hitched. “The Dai Li.”

Sokka went still. “Wait. You think the secret police took Appa?”

Aang’s eyes widened with horror. “Why would they—?”

Katara’s mouth turned bitter. “Because they can. Because they control everything.”

Jet’s gaze slid to Katara, then away again. “Because a flying bison is hard to hide,” he said. “Unless you own the hiding places.”

Aang’s fists clenched again. A thin thread of hope pulled tight inside him, painful but alive. “So we keep looking.”

“Yes,” Jet said immediately.

Katara’s eyes snapped to him. “You don’t get to decide you’re part of this.”

Jet met her glare without flinching. “I’m already part of it. I gave you the lead. I brought you here. If I walk away now, it doesn’t change what I did.”

His voice went quieter, rougher. “It just makes me a coward too.”

Sokka’s expression flickered—annoyed, suspicious, but also… unsure.

Toph tilted her head. “He means it,” she said. “Doesn’t mean he’s smart. But he means it.”

Katara’s water lowered slightly, though her eyes stayed hard. “If you’re staying,” she said, each word clipped, “you follow our rules.”

Jet nodded once. “Fine.”

Sokka jabbed a finger at him. “Rule one: if you betray us again, I will personally invent a new boomerang shape specifically designed to hit you in the face.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “Noted.”

Katara stepped closer, voice low enough to feel like a warning pressed against skin. “You don’t go near Aang alone. You don’t try to ‘fix’ anything with extreme plans. You don’t disappear.”

Jet held her gaze. “Okay.”

Aang looked between them, swallowing hard. “Katara…”

Katara’s expression softened just a fraction at his voice. “We need everyone we can get,” she said, though it sounded like she was convincing herself too.

Then she looked at Jet again, eyes like ice. “But one mistake, Jet. One.”

Jet nodded, once, formal and controlled. “Understood.”

Above the compound wall, hidden in a patch of reeds and shadow, Zuko watched the group regroup instead of breaking.

He saw Katara’s anger. Aang’s desperation. Sokka’s suspicion. Toph’s blunt certainty.

And he saw Jet—soaked in their distrust, still choosing to stand beside them.

Zuko’s stomach twisted.

Part jealousy, part frustration, part something he didn’t want to name: the fear that Jet could belong with them in a way Zuko never could.

He clenched his hands in his sleeves and forced himself to focus.

They didn’t find Appa.

That meant the lake wasn’t the end.

It was a doorway.

And now Jet was walking through it with the Avatar.

Zuko swallowed, then melted back into the reeds as they left the compound behind—already arguing about what to do next, already chasing hope through the cracks of Ba Sing Se’s perfect walls.

Jet didn’t knock.

He never did when it was late enough that the hallway itself felt like it was sleeping.

The latch clicked softly, the door opened just a careful inch, and then Jet slipped inside like a shadow that already belonged to the room.

Zuko was awake.

He’d told himself he was waiting for Iroh to come back from washing dishes at the shop. He’d told himself he was listening for street noise. He’d told himself a lot of things.

But the moment Jet’s boots hit the floorboards, Zuko’s attention snapped to him like a hook.

Jet shut the door behind him and stood near it, shoulders back, posture clean. He looked tired—mud at the hem of his trousers, a scuff on one boot, hair damp from night air—but his expression was controlled. Neutral. Almost… palace-formal.

Zuko sat up on his mat, eyes narrowing. “You’re back.”

Jet gave a precise nod. “Yes.”

Something in that single word—flat, respectful, deliberately contained—made Zuko’s irritation flare.

“Three nights,” Zuko said. “No note. No warning. Just gone.”

Jet’s jaw flexed. “I was in the field.”

Zuko scoffed. “You were ‘in the field’ in the Middle Ring with the Avatar.”

Jet didn’t rise to the tone. He stepped forward two paces and stopped at a respectful distance, hands behind his back like he was reporting to a superior officer.

“I am here to report,” Jet said.

Zuko blinked, thrown by the formality—then felt something inside him catch and harden around it.

Fine.

If Jet wanted to act like this was a duty briefing, Zuko could do duty.

Zuko leaned back slightly, letting his voice go cold. “Report.”

Jet’s eyes flicked up—just briefly—then lowered again. “Contact was made successfully. The Avatar’s group pursued the lead to Lake Laogai. No sign of Appa was found.”

Zuko’s fingers tightened in the blanket. He kept his face blank. “They believe the Dai Li took him?”

“Yes,” Jet said. “Katara suspects Dai Li involvement. Toph corroborates that the area feels ‘wrong’—her words. Their next action is to monitor message boards and pressure locals for information.”

Zuko’s mouth tightened. “Pressure how.”

Jet hesitated a fraction. “Katara prefers diplomacy. Sokka prefers interrogation. The Avatar… prefers hope.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “And you?”

Jet’s expression stayed neutral. “I offered analysis. I did not take lead.”

Zuko didn’t like the sound of offered. It sounded like Jet had been careful to play the obedient helper. Like he’d been practicing being harmless.

Zuko’s voice sharpened. “You stayed with them.”

“Yes.”

“Why.”

Jet’s gaze lifted, finally meeting Zuko’s eyes. The answer came out clean. Controlled. Professional.

“Because my instructions were to establish contact and maintain access,” Jet said. “Leaving after one encounter would have reduced credibility and limited information flow.”

Zuko stared at him, jaw tight. “You could’ve sent word.”

Jet’s mouth twitched—almost a reaction, quickly buried. “There was no safe channel.”

Zuko’s temper flared anyway. “We live in a dump with paper-thin walls and you’re telling me you couldn’t slip a note under the door?”

Jet took the hit without changing posture. “I judged the risk of interception too high.”

Zuko sat forward, anger warming his voice. “You judged?”

Jet didn’t move. “Yes.”

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “You’re not the only one who can judge risks.”

Jet’s gaze stayed steady, and his voice didn’t sharpen. “Noted.”

The word was too perfect. Too respectful. Like Jet was swallowing everything else he wanted to say.

It made Zuko more annoyed.

“Drop the palace routine,” Zuko snapped. “You’re not on parade.”

Jet paused. Just a breath.

Then he dipped his head. “Understood.”

Zuko’s teeth clenched. He hated how it worked—how Jet’s obedience hit the part of him trained to accept it. How easy it would be to become his father if he let himself enjoy it.

So he leaned into it harder, just to punish the feeling.

“Any other findings?” Zuko asked coolly.

Jet’s jaw flexed again. “Yes.”

He reached into his coat and produced a folded scrap of paper. He held it out flat, formal, waiting.

Zuko took it. The paper smelled faintly of paste and damp air. On it, in hurried writing, were locations and times—where the Gaang planned to check next. Which boards they’d revisit. A note about a man near the Middle Ring who “saw a big animal moved at night.”

Zuko’s pulse picked up.

“And?” Zuko demanded.

Jet continued, clipped. “They are stretched thin. They do not trust me fully, but they tolerate my presence because I provide information. Katara remains hostile. Sokka remains suspicious. The Avatar remains hopeful. Toph remains difficult to mislead.”

Zuko huffed. “Toph’s always difficult.”

Jet’s eyes flicked up again, almost amused, then went flat. “Yes.”

Zuko stared at him for a long beat, the paper crinkling in his grip.

He should feel satisfied. He had what he wanted: access, a thread leading straight to the Avatar.

So why did his chest feel tight like a fist?

He looked at Jet again—mud on his clothes, the faint bruise at his collarbone like he’d taken a hit and hadn’t mentioned it. The tiredness around his eyes that his formal posture couldn’t hide.

Zuko’s voice came out harsher than he meant. “Next time you’re gone for days, you tell me.”

Jet’s gaze steadied. “Yes.”

Zuko’s brows knit. “Not Uncle. Me.”

Jet’s throat worked. “Yes, Zuko.”

There—less formal. More real.

Zuko’s annoyance softened into something sharp and complicated. He hated that he’d missed Jet’s presence in the room like it was an anchor. He hated that it felt like losing control when Jet wasn’t within reach.

He gestured toward the corner by the window, where Jet usually kept watch. “Take your post.”

Jet hesitated, just a fraction, like he was checking whether Zuko meant it as punishment or comfort.

Then he nodded. “As you wish.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t say it like that.”

Jet’s mouth twitched, barely. “As you—prefer.”

Zuko rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction anyway. He turned his gaze away, pretending he wasn’t relieved to hear Jet move across the room.

Iroh shifted in his sleep, muttering something about ginseng.

Jet settled by the window, eyes on the street, posture still too formal but at least familiar.

After a long moment, Zuko spoke again, quieter. “Did they mention anything about the posters? About Appa being moved?”

Jet’s voice came low from the shadows. “Not directly. But the Dai Li are watching them. Someone keeps tearing the posters down.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “Good.”

Jet’s gaze flicked toward him. “Good?”

Zuko stared at the folded note in his hand. “It means they’re close.”

Jet didn’t argue.

But his voice, still controlled, carried something under it—warning, maybe.

“Or it means,” Jet said quietly, “that someone wants them desperate.”

Zuko didn’t answer. He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his sleeve.

Then, because he couldn’t help it, he added—flat, pretending it didn’t matter:

“Try not to get water-whipped again.”

A beat of silence.

Then Jet’s low reply came from the window, dry as dust. “No promises.”

Zuko lay back down, staring at the ceiling.

Jet’s return had brought information. Strategy. A path forward.

It had also brought back the steady weight of a presence in the room—one Zuko was starting to realize he didn’t like being without.

And that realization irritated him more than anything.

Chapter Text

Iroh noticed things the way he noticed tea.

Not all at once—never loud, never blunt—but in small shifts: a cup held too tightly, a breath taken too fast, a bitterness where there used to be warmth.

It started with the way Jet began speaking again.

Not the sharp, half-teasing snips from the Lower Ring walks. Not the dry humor that slipped out when Zuko wasn’t looking.

Formal.

Clean.

“Yes, Zuko.”
“Understood.”
“As you prefer.”

Jet stood straighter in the apartment, hands clasped behind his back when he reported, eyes steady but distant. He took his post by the window like it was a punishment he’d volunteered for.

And Zuko—Zuko leaned into it.

He spoke like a prince trying on a voice he hated.

“Report.”
“Next time you inform me.”
“Don’t improvise.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t explode. In some ways, it was better than yelling.

But it was colder. Like the air in the room had changed temperature.

One night, while Jet kept watch and Zuko pretended to sleep, Iroh lay on his mat and stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence they were building between them like a wall.

In the morning, he didn’t mention it.

He just made tea, as if warmth could solve anything if you poured it slowly enough.

At the shop, Zuko was different.

Not soft. Not happy. But… less rigid, as if the work and the steam and the steady rhythm of pouring gave his mind something to hold onto that wasn’t anger.

And then Jin started coming more.

At first, it was “just stopping by.” A cup of jasmine, a smile, a few minutes at a table near the counter.

Then it became routine.

She’d slip in during the slow hours with her scarf half-unwound, cheeks flushed from the cold, and she’d wave like she belonged there.

“Hi,” she’d say, eyes finding Zuko immediately.

And Zuko would try—always try—to look normal, and fail in the same way every time: too stiff, too quiet, too aware of her presence like it was a lit lantern in a dark room.

He’d pour her tea. He’d pretend he didn’t care what she thought of it. He’d act annoyed when she smiled at him like she’d discovered something good.

And Jin—stubborn, bright Jin—would sit at the counter sometimes instead of a table, close enough to talk without shouting.

She’d tell him about her day. About a neighbor’s argument. About a rumor she’d heard. About some silly festival poster she’d seen.

Zuko didn’t offer much back, but he listened in a way he didn’t listen to most people. When he did speak, it was short, blunt, honest.

Jin didn’t seem to mind. She liked pulling words out of him like thread.

“You’re thinking again,” she’d say.

“I’m not,” Zuko would grumble.

“You totally are.”

“I’m not.”

“Your face says you are.”

And once—only once—Zuko had muttered, “My face doesn’t say anything.”

Jin had laughed so hard she almost spilled her tea.

Iroh had watched it all from the other side of the counter, polishing cups that were already clean.

He watched Zuko’s shoulders loosen the tiniest bit when Jin arrived.

He watched Zuko stay longer after closing—wiping the same table twice, reorganizing jars, suddenly very dedicated to “helping”—if Jin lingered outside, chatting as the street lamps flickered on.

He watched Zuko walk her to the door with a stiffness that tried to be distance and failed.

And he watched Jet, too.

Jet would appear at the doorway like clockwork, scanning the room, eyes always moving. Sometimes he’d step inside and stand just out of the way, silent.

When Jin was there, Jet’s presence went sharper, not hostile, but alert—like her smile made him nervous because it made Zuko careless.

Sometimes Jin would glance at Jet and offer a polite little wave.

Jet would nod back, formal, as if politeness was a contract.

And Zuko—Zuko would pretend he didn’t notice any of it, pouring tea like the kettle was the only thing he could control.

One evening, after Jin left with a bright “See you tomorrow, Lee!” and a final smile that lingered in the air like steam, the shop went quiet.

Iroh flipped the sign to CLOSED and began stacking cups.

Zuko wiped the counter, eyes fixed on the wood like it had offended him.

Jet stood by the door.

The silence felt heavier with all three of them in it.

Iroh set down a cup gently. “Zuko,” he said, mild, “you have been spending more time at the shop lately.”

Zuko didn’t look up. “It’s my job.”

“It is,” Iroh agreed. “And yet… you are here even when you do not need to be.”

Zuko scrubbed harder, as if friction could erase the question. “It’s better than sitting in the apartment.”

Jet’s eyes flicked toward him.

Iroh’s expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze sharpened with understanding. “Better because the shop is warm,” Iroh said softly, “or better because someone here makes it feel warm?”

Zuko’s head snapped up. “Don’t.”

Iroh held up both hands innocently. “I am only observing.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Observe something else.”

Iroh nodded serenely, then glanced toward Jet—not accusing, not prying. Just acknowledging.

“Jet,” Iroh said gently, “you have been very… disciplined lately.”

Jet’s posture straightened, immediate. “Thank you.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed at the tone—too clean, too obedient.

Iroh’s voice stayed calm. “That was not meant as praise or criticism.”

Jet blinked once. “Understood.”

Zuko’s fingers tightened on the rag. “You can talk like a person, you know.”

Jet’s gaze slid to him, controlled. “I am speaking clearly.”

“Coldly,” Zuko snapped.

Jet’s jaw flexed. “Professionally.”

Iroh stepped between the sharp edges with a soft clink of porcelain. “Sometimes,” he said, “professional can be a shield.”

Neither of them answered.

Iroh sighed, quiet as steam. “You two used to argue with more… life in it.”

Zuko’s eyes flicked away.

Jet didn’t move.

Iroh continued, voice warm but firm. “Zuko, you have been trying very hard to be Lee.” His eyes softened. “And perhaps when you come home, it becomes difficult to remember who you are allowed to be.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. “I know who I am.”

Iroh’s gaze held his. “Do you?”

Silence.

Jet’s voice came even, careful. “If there are no further orders, I will take the evening watch.”

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “Of course you will.”

Jet nodded once and stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind him.

The moment he was gone, the shop felt warmer and emptier at the same time.

Iroh watched Zuko’s face, gentle and knowing. “It is easier to stay here,” he said, “because here you can pretend the difficult parts of your life are outside the door.”

Zuko swallowed. “It’s not pretending.”

Iroh’s tone softened. “Then what is it?”

Zuko stared at the counter, at the tea stains and the clean jars and the place where Jin’s cup had sat minutes ago.

Finally, he muttered, “It’s… quiet here.”

Iroh nodded. “Yes.”

Zuko’s voice dropped, rough. “And with her… I don’t feel like I’m being watched all the time.”

Iroh’s eyes softened, but his next words were careful. “Zuko,” he said quietly, “you are being watched.”

Zuko stiffened.

Iroh did not push. He simply set a hand on Zuko’s shoulder—brief, grounding. “But not all eyes are cruel,” he added.

Zuko didn’t answer.

Outside, a shape moved past the shop window—Jet taking position somewhere nearby, silent and steady.

Zuko’s gaze flicked to the glass for half a second, then away.

And Iroh, who had seen wars end and kingdoms fall, watched his nephew hover between two kinds of safety—one built from guards and control, and one built from a girl who smiled like the world could be kind.

Neither was simple.

And both, he feared, would collide sooner than any of them wanted.

The Lower Ring festival wasn’t grand the way palace celebrations had been.

It was stitched together out of lantern paper and string, out of borrowed music and street-cooked food, out of people who didn’t have much but refused to let that stop them from laughing.

Jin led Zuko into it like she’d been born for crowds. She hooked her arm through his sleeve without asking, as if she’d decided that was allowed now, and pulled him along past painted masks and spinning ribbon dancers.

“Look!” she said, pointing at a stall where someone was trying to win a stuffed turtle-duck by tossing rings over bottles. “We have to do that.”

“We don’t,” Zuko said immediately.

Jin’s grin turned wicked. “Oh, we do. I want to see you attempt something fun.”

Zuko scowled at the stall like it was an enemy fortress. “I can do fun.”

Jin laughed. “Prove it.”

Zuko paid for three rings with the resigned air of a man walking to his own execution. The vendor leaned forward eagerly, already sensing entertainment.

Zuko squared his shoulders, narrowed his eyes, and tossed the first ring like he was throwing a knife.

It bounced off a bottle and clattered to the table.

The vendor winced. Jin bit her lip hard, trying not to laugh.

Zuko threw the second. It hit the bottle dead-on… and bounced away anyway.

Jin made a strangled sound and turned her face into her scarf.

Zuko’s ears went hot. “Stop.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Jin squeaked, voice muffled, clearly doing everything.

Zuko threw the third ring with a sharp flick of his wrist.

It actually landed—wobbly but on.

The vendor blinked, surprised, then shoved a small stuffed turtle-duck toward him. “Beginner’s luck,” he said, suspicious.

Zuko snatched it like he’d won a war and shoved it into Jin’s hands. “There.”

Jin stared at the turtle-duck, then at Zuko, eyes bright. “You did fun.”

Zuko looked away, pretending he hadn’t enjoyed her smile. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Jin hugged the turtle-duck to her chest. “I’m going to make a huge deal out of it.”

They wandered deeper into the festival, eating sweet bean cakes on sticks, pausing to watch an old man play a flute that sounded like wind over reeds. Jin kept talking—about the colors, the music, the way the lanterns made everyone look softer.

Zuko listened and tried, honestly tried, to stay in it.

Not to think about posters. Not to think about Lake Laogai. Not to think about the tight, quiet tension in his apartment when Jet stood too straight and Zuko acted like he didn’t mind.

Tonight he was “Lee.” Tonight he was just—

Jin bumped his shoulder. “You’re thinking again.”

Zuko sighed. “I’m not.”

Jin’s eyes sparkled. “Your face says you are.”

“My face doesn’t say anything,” Zuko muttered, automatically.

Jin grinned, delighted all over again. “There it is. That line. I love that line.”

Zuko scowled, but it was less sharp than it used to be. “You love everything.”

Jin leaned in a little, playful. “Only the good things.”

Zuko’s chest tightened in that dangerous way. He looked at the lantern glow reflected in her eyes and thought—briefly—what if I could just stay here?

Across the city, the Upper Ring had its own kind of celebration.

Not a festival—nothing so honest—but a crowded street near a message board, where the Avatar’s group had planted themselves like they belonged. The air was colder, the buildings taller, the crowd better dressed.

Jet moved through them like a thread pulling a needle.

He’d been with them for days now, tolerated in the way you tolerated a splinter you couldn’t pull out yet. He kept his distance from Aang unless he was speaking, kept his hands visible, kept his body angled so Katara could see him at all times.

Sokka still watched him like he expected betrayal in every blink.

Toph seemed bored by the entire concept of trust.

Aang was a mess of hope and exhaustion.

They were near a public board plastered with missing notices and announcements. Aang was pasting up another Appa poster with shaking hands.

“There,” Aang said softly, stepping back. “Someone has to see it.”

“We’ve posted a hundred,” Sokka said, trying to sound encouraging and failing. “Maybe the hundred-and-first is the charm.”

Katara’s eyes tracked the crowd. “We should move,” she said. “We’re drawing attention.”

Jet’s gaze flicked down the street—then stopped.

A familiar sound drifted on the air: festival music. Laughter. Lanterns.

The Lower Ring celebration was bleeding outward, drawing people from nearby blocks. A stream of festival-goers was moving up toward the market street.

And in that stream—briefly visible between two passing carts—Jet saw a flash of dark hair and a red-and-gold scarf.

Zuko.

With Jin at his side.

Zuko’s face was turned toward her, expression caught in that strange in-between state Jet had seen only a few times: guarded, but not hard. Present.

Jet’s stomach tightened, sharp and immediate.

Then his eyes snapped to Aang.

Aang’s head lifted at the same moment, drawn by movement, by noise, by instinct.

If Aang saw Zuko…

If Katara saw him—

Jet moved.

He stepped into Aang’s line of sight smoothly, like it was an accident, like he hadn’t just felt panic spike through his veins.

“Aang,” Jet said quickly, pointing at the board. “Look.”

Aang blinked. “What?”

Jet tapped the corner of a half-torn flyer beside the Appa poster—something about “special shipments” and “official transport permits.” It wasn’t about Appa, not directly, but it had a Dai Li stamp and a date.

Katara leaned in, instantly suspicious. “Where did you get that?”

“It was already here,” Jet said, voice steady. “I’m just saying… it’s the first time I’ve seen official transport mentioned near your posters. Someone’s moving things.”

Sokka squinted. “That could be anything.”

Toph’s head tilted. “It’s got a lot of little lies on it,” she muttered. “Which is… kind of the city’s whole brand.”

Katara narrowed her eyes at Jet. “You’re stalling.”

Jet held her gaze, calm. “I’m thinking.”

Katara’s gaze flicked past him, scanning the crowd—

and Jet shifted again, half a step, blocking without looking like he was blocking. He moved like a door swinging closed.

Katara frowned. “What are you—”

A sudden burst of festival drums rolled through the street as a small parade rounded the corner—dancers with lantern poles, kids with paper masks. The crowd surged.

Perfect.

Jet raised his voice just enough to pull focus. “We should move off the street,” he said. “If someone’s tearing down posters, they’ll use the crowd to do it. We’ll lose sight of everything.”

Aang’s eyes widened. “Oh! Yeah—yeah, okay.”

Sokka grumbled. “Finally, something sensible.”

Katara looked unconvinced, but she snapped, “Fine. Everyone together.”

They moved to the side street near the board, away from the festival flow.

Jet’s eyes cut back to the main street once—just once.

He caught one more glimpse of Zuko slipping behind a lantern stall with Jin, laughing quietly at something she’d said.

Something twisted in Jet’s chest—relief, irritation, jealousy, all tangled up.

Then the crowd swallowed them.

Katara watched Jet’s face like she’d caught something.

“Why are you looking over there?” she demanded.

Jet forced his expression flat. “Habit.”

Toph snorted. “He’s lying.”

Jet didn’t react. “I’m being cautious.”

Sokka jabbed a thumb toward Jet. “He’s always ‘being cautious.’ Last time that ended with a nearly drowned town. So, you know. Great.”

Aang rubbed his temples. “Guys… please.”

Katara’s eyes didn’t leave Jet. “What are you hiding, Jet.”

Jet met her stare, controlled. “Nothing you need right now.”

Katara’s water skin shifted at her hip.

Jet didn’t flinch.

He just said, evenly, “We can fight each other, or we can find Appa.”

Aang’s expression crumpled at the name, and that—always—won.

Katara exhaled through her nose, anger banked but not gone. “Fine,” she said sharply. “But I’m watching you.”

Jet nodded once. “You should.”

Down in the festival, Jin pulled Zuko toward a lantern booth where people were writing wishes on strips of paper.

“Come on,” she said, bright. “Write one.”

Zuko stared at the paper like it might expose him. “No.”

Jin pouted. “You don’t have to show anyone.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. He stared at the lanterns swaying overhead and felt the city’s secrets pressing at the edges of his mind.

He thought of Appa, missing.

He thought of Aang, searching.

He thought of Jet, somewhere out there, threading danger like it was second nature.

And he thought—dangerously—of wishing for something that wasn’t a mission.

Jin nudged him gently. “Just one,” she coaxed. “For you.”

Zuko swallowed hard and picked up the brush.

He wrote slowly, carefully, as if the characters might betray him.

Jin leaned in but didn’t read it. She just smiled like she could feel the shape of the wish anyway.

When Zuko tied the strip to a lantern, the paper fluttered in the breeze.

A small, quiet hope, hidden in a city built on denial.

And across town, Jet kept the Avatar’s group moving—kept their eyes on posters and permits and rumors—kept them from turning their heads at exactly the wrong moment.

Because if those two worlds collided in the open—

 “Lee” and Zuko the hunted prince,

the Avatar and the boy chasing him,

Jin’s gentle trust and Katara’s righteous fury—Ba Sing Se wouldn’t be big enough to hold the fallout.

Chapter Text

By the end of the week, the Gaang didn’t like Jet.

But they stopped bracing for him to stab them in the back every time he breathed.

It started small—unremarkable things.

Jet catching Aang’s sleeve before he walked straight into a Dai Li patrol’s path.
Jet steering them down alleys that didn’t dead-end.
Jet pointing out the pattern: posters torn down only in certain blocks, certain times, always after a “routine” Dai Li sweep.

And the biggest shift of all:

Jet didn’t try to lead.

He didn’t make speeches. He didn’t push a grand plan. He let Katara set the pace, let Sokka complain, let Aang spiral and then gently redirect him back to the work.

Even Sokka’s suspicion began to… wobble.

“Okay,” Sokka muttered one afternoon, squinting at a transport ledger Jet had “found,” “I hate to say this, but you’ve been… weirdly helpful.”

Jet didn’t smirk. He just said, “Don’t say it too loud. I have a reputation.”

Katara watched him for a long moment—eyes sharp, searching for the angle. Then she looked away and said, tight, “He’s right about the ledger. The dates match the poster removals.”

Aang’s hope flared instantly. “So Appa was moved with an official transport?”

“Or hidden under one,” Jet said.

Toph, barefoot and bored-looking, pressed her foot into the stone and frowned. “Huh.”

Everyone looked at her.

“What?” Toph said. “Don’t ‘huh’ at me. I’m thinking.”

Katara crossed her arms. “What do you feel?”

Toph’s face scrunched. “I feel… nothing useful. Which is weird because this whole city usually screams lies at me.”

Sokka blinked. “Wait. You can tell when people lie, right?”

Toph rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Usually.”

Aang leaned in, hopeful. “Usually?”

Toph jabbed a thumb at Jet. “But not him.”

Jet froze a fraction too long.

Katara’s head snapped toward him. “What.”

Toph shrugged like it annoyed her. “He’s hard to read. His heartbeat’s steady. His weight shifts like he means everything he says.”

Sokka’s eyes widened. “Are you saying… you can’t tell when Jet lies?”

Toph scowled. “I’m saying he lies like a professional.”

Jet’s mouth tightened. “I’m standing right here.”

Toph waved a hand. “Good. Then listen: it’s creepy.”

Katara’s voice went dangerously low. “So you are lying.”

Jet kept his hands visible, posture neutral. “I’m not lying about Appa.”

Toph pointed at him. “See? That. That’s not a lie. But it also doesn’t mean he isn’t lying about other stuff.”

Aang’s face pinched with worry. “Jet…”

Jet looked at Aang for a beat—something honest flickering through his eyes, just once. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I’m here to fix what I can.”

Toph made a face like she didn’t know what to do with sincerity. “Ugh. That sounded real. I hate it.”

Sokka rubbed his temples. “Okay, cool. Great. Fantastic. We have a human lie-detector who can’t detect lies from the one guy we don’t trust.”

Katara’s gaze stayed locked on Jet. It wasn’t warm. But it wasn’t a weapon anymore either.

“Then you stay where I can see you,” she said.

Jet nodded once. “Fine.”

And somehow… that was the moment it shifted.

Not trust like friendship.

Trust like: we can use you, and you haven’t tried to ruin us yet.

In Ba Sing Se, that counted as progress.

That night, Jet slipped back to the Lower Ring the way he always did—quiet, careful, checking corners like the city itself might reach out and grab him.

The apartment was dark except for a low candle on the table.

Zuko was awake.

He didn’t pretend otherwise anymore.

Jet shut the door, stood near it, and straightened into that clipped, formal posture Zuko had started to hate and lean on at the same time.

“I am here to report,” Jet said evenly.

Zuko sat up on his mat, expression flat. “Report.”

Jet didn’t miss the edge in Zuko’s voice. He didn’t comment on it either.

“The group is closer to accepting me,” Jet said. “Katara’s hostility has decreased. Sokka remains suspicious but is cooperating. The Avatar is… unstable. He is exhausted and increasingly reckless.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “And Appa.”

“No confirmed location,” Jet said. “But we have a working theory: Appa was moved using or disguised as an official transport. We obtained ledger dates and permit patterns that align with the poster-removal sweeps.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s behind it.”

Jet’s pause was slight. Measured. “We suspect Dai Li involvement.”

Zuko leaned forward. “How sure.”

“As sure as we can be without entering restricted spaces,” Jet replied. “Toph reports the city’s lies are harder to read around certain locations—especially near official buildings and transport checkpoints.”

Zuko’s fingers curled. “Lake Laogai.”

Jet nodded once. “They went. No Appa. They blamed me. I stayed anyway.”

Zuko’s expression flickered—anger, approval, jealousy, something tangled. He forced it back into control.

“They trust you now,” Zuko said, more statement than question.

“More,” Jet admitted. “Not fully.”

Zuko’s gaze sharpened. “Toph.”

Jet’s mouth tightened. “She can’t read me.”

Zuko blinked. “She can’t what.”

Jet’s voice stayed formal, but a hint of dry irritation slid underneath. “She says she cannot tell when I lie.”

Zuko stared, thrown, then suspicious. “Why.”

Jet didn’t shift. “Training. Habit. I keep my breathing controlled. I anchor my weight. I speak in truths that allow omissions.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed harder. “So you are lying.”

Jet met his gaze steadily. “I am not lying about Appa.”

Zuko held the stare, then said flatly, “That’s exactly what she said you’d do.”

For the first time all night, Jet’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, killed quickly. “Yes.”

Zuko’s irritation flared. “Don’t get smug.”

Jet’s posture stayed rigid. “Understood.”

Zuko exhaled sharply through his nose, then asked, quieter, “Do they suspect me.”

Jet’s eyes lifted fully now, serious. “No. Not yet. They are focused on Appa and the city.”

Zuko’s chest loosened a fraction. “Good.”

Jet hesitated—just a beat. “Katara is watching rooftops more,” he added. “She thinks someone is tracking them.”

Zuko went still. “And?”

“She does not know who,” Jet said. “But she is not wrong.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Next time warn me.”

Jet didn’t argue. “Yes.”

Zuko stared at him. The candlelight made Jet look older, sharper. Like the days with the Gaang had carved something back into him—purpose, momentum, a version of himself that knew how to belong in a group.

Zuko hated that he noticed.

He hated more that it made his chest tighten.

“And Jet,” Zuko said, voice cool.

Jet waited. “Yes?”

Zuko leaned into the tone, because it was easier than saying what he actually meant. “If Toph can’t read you… don’t get careless. If she realizes what that means, you won’t last a day with them.”

Jet nodded once. “I’m aware.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “Are you.”

Jet held his gaze, then answered with the same careful formality—only softer at the edges.

“Yes, Zuko.”

A beat of silence.

Then Zuko, stubborn and irritated at himself, added, “You’ve been gone a lot.”

Jet’s eyes flicked, a micro-expression of surprise. “I have been maintaining contact.”

“I know what you’ve been doing,” Zuko snapped. Then, more controlled, “Just… don’t disappear without telling me.”

Jet paused.

Not because he didn’t understand.

Because he did.

“Understood,” Jet said quietly.

Zuko looked away first, jaw tight, as if the ceiling was suddenly fascinating.

Jet moved to the window and took his watch position—still too straight, still too formal, but present.

And Zuko lay back down, staring into the dark, trying very hard not to admit that “present” was what he’d been missing.

The weirdest part wasn’t that Zuko kept agreeing to see Jin.

It was that, somewhere between the first “okay” and the fifth, he stopped feeling like he was being dragged.

He started looking forward to it.

At the tea shop, he caught himself anticipating the bell over the door—not because it meant more work, but because it might be her. Because the air felt different when Jin sat at the counter and talked like the world wasn’t a threat.

And worse—he started enjoying the shop even when she wasn’t there.

Not all the time. He still hated rude customers. He still hated when someone complained that the tea was too hot. (That was… the point.)

But he found himself learning the blends without realizing. Remembering which regular liked ginger. Adjusting the steep time because he’d noticed the jasmine tasted better that way. Moving with the rhythm of it—cup, pour, steam, wipe—like it was a kind of training he didn’t have to bleed for.

One afternoon, Iroh caught him re-labeling the jars with neat, careful handwriting.

Iroh leaned on the counter, eyes bright. “Ah.”

Zuko didn’t look up. “What.”

Iroh smiled. “Nothing.”

Zuko frowned. “You’re doing the ‘nothing’ thing.”

“I am only appreciating that you are making the shop better,” Iroh said, entirely too pleased.

Zuko muttered, “It was bothering me.”

“Of course,” Iroh said sweetly. “Everything you care about ‘bothers’ you.”

Zuko scowled, but the scowl didn’t have teeth.

Jin started coming by after closing now.

Not every night—she wasn’t foolish—but enough that it felt like a pattern the city couldn’t take away.

Some nights they wandered the market and argued over what counted as “good” food. (Jin’s definition was “anything sweet.” Zuko’s definition was “anything that doesn’t taste like sadness.”)

Some nights they sat in a quiet courtyard and listened to someone play music badly. Jin would laugh, and Zuko would pretend not to.

And on one of those nights, after a long stretch of silence that didn’t feel awkward, Jin said softly, “You don’t have to be ‘Lee’ with me all the time, you know.”

Zuko’s shoulders tightened. “I am Lee.”

Jin studied him for a second, then nodded like she understood what he really meant. “Okay,” she said. “Then you don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Zuko’s throat went tight. He stared at a lantern swaying above them, jaw working.

“I’m not strong,” he said, quieter than he meant to.

Jin didn’t argue. She just nudged him gently with her shoulder. “Then you’re doing a really good impression.”

Zuko let out a short breath that was almost a laugh.

Jin smiled. “There.”

Zuko muttered, “Stop.”

But he didn’t pull away when she leaned into him. He didn’t flinch when her fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve.

And later, when they walked home, Zuko found himself talking without meaning to.

Not about the Fire Nation. Not about the war. Not about the scar.

But about little things—growing up with too many rules, hating palace tutors, how the best food he’d ever had was stolen from a street cart when he was supposed to be “training.”

Jin laughed so hard she nearly tripped. “You stole food?”

Zuko’s ears went red. “I was hungry.”

“That’s adorable,” Jin declared.

“It’s not adorable,” Zuko snapped automatically.

“It’s adorable,” Jin repeated, victorious, and then kissed him at her corner like she was stamping the word into the world.

Zuko went home later with his mouth still warm and his head full of dangerous, quiet hope.

Across the city, Jet was building something just as dangerous.

Trust.

It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t soft. It was earned in sharp, practical pieces:

Jet getting them out of a street sweep before the Dai Li could “politely” separate them.
Jet noticing which tea houses had too many quiet men watching the door.
Jet steering Aang away from anyone who smiled too hard.

Katara still watched him like a storm cloud deciding whether it should become lightning.

But she started handing him tasks.

“Jet,” she said one morning, curt, “check the west board. See if any posters were torn down overnight.”

Jet nodded. “On it.”

Sokka, unbelievably, began asking him questions without turning it into an interrogation every single time.

Toph still didn’t like him.

Toph also, annoyingly, started defending him.

“He’s not lying right now,” she’d say, bored, whenever Sokka got too dramatic.

Sokka would squint at Jet like that was a betrayal. “That’s not comforting, Toph.”

Toph shrugged. “It’s accurate.”

And Aang—Aang stopped looking at Jet like he expected pain.

He started looking like he wanted to believe in him.

Which was… worse.

Because Jet could feel what it did to him: made him want to deserve it.

The lead came on a foggy morning.

They were near a Middle Ring checkpoint—one of the “official” transport arches where carts rolled through under the bored gaze of guards who weren’t really guards.

Aang had gone quiet, that dangerous quiet that meant he was running out of hope.

Katara’s jaw was clenched so tightly Jet could practically hear it.

Then Jet saw it: a small mark on a posted permit list. A stamp—Dai Li, yes—but with a secondary symbol beneath it that didn’t match the others.

A warehouse code.

Old. Hidden. Familiar if you’d spent your life reading the parts people didn’t want you to notice.

Jet stepped closer like he was just another curious citizen.

Toph’s head lifted. “What’s up.”

Jet didn’t answer right away. He read the code twice to be sure.

Then he turned and said, low and controlled, “We’ve been looking at the wrong kind of movement.”

Sokka frowned. “What does that mean.”

Jet pointed subtly. “That stamp. That’s not a route stamp. It’s a storage transfer.”

Katara’s eyes narrowed. “Storage for what.”

Jet’s gaze flicked to Aang, then back. “Large cargo.”

Aang’s breath caught. “Appa.”

Toph pressed her foot into the stone and tilted her head. “That code… yeah. That feels like people trying to hide something big.”

Katara’s voice went cold. “Where.”

Jet swallowed. He could already feel the consequences. “Old Lake Laogai supply chain,” he said. “But not the compound. A warehouse line that feeds into the city. If they moved him off-site, they’d use a storage point before transferring again.”

Sokka’s eyes widened. “So there’s a warehouse where they held Appa.”

Jet nodded once. “Or where they’re holding him now.”

Aang’s face shifted—hope flaring so bright it hurt to look at. “Let’s go. Right now.”

Katara grabbed his wrist gently. “Aang—wait. We do this smart.”

Aang looked ready to explode out of his own skin. “I can’t—”

Jet cut in, carefully. “We need eyes first. Not a fight in the open. They’ll disappear him again.”

Katara’s gaze snapped to him, searching. Then she nodded once.

“Fine,” she said. “We scout. Tonight.”

Sokka muttered, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… good catch, Jet.”

Jet didn’t smile. He just said, “Don’t get used to it.”

Toph crossed her arms. “He’s telling the truth,” she said, like she was offended by it.

Katara’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean he isn’t hiding something else.”

Jet’s stomach tightened.

Because he was.

That night, Jet returned to the apartment with fog in his hair and the city in his bones.

Zuko was awake, of course.

He looked different lately—still sharp, still guarded, but there was an annoying hint of life under it now. Like he’d been warmed by something and hadn’t noticed the change until it was too late.

Jet stood near the door and straightened into that formal posture he’d rebuilt like armor.

“I am here to report,” he said.

Zuko leaned back slightly, voice cool on purpose. “Report.”

Jet didn’t miss the edge.

He didn’t react to it either.

“We have a lead on Appa,” Jet said. “Confirmed through Dai Li storage transfer codes. Warehouse line tied to Lake Laogai supply chain.”

Zuko sat up, attention snapping into place. “Where.”

Jet gave the cross-streets and landmarks, precise. “They plan to scout tonight. If the bison is there, the Avatar will act.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “And you.”

Jet met his gaze. “I will remain with them.”

Zuko’s expression tightened—annoyed, jealous, something tangled. “How close are you.”

“Close enough that they don’t leave me behind,” Jet said evenly. “Katara is the gate. Sokka is the alarm. Toph is the sensor. Aang is—”

“—the target,” Zuko finished, harsh.

Jet paused a fraction. “Yes.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re that close, you can bring him to me.”

Jet held the stare.

Zuko leaned into the coldness because it was easier than saying, I don’t like you being with them.

“Can’t you?” Zuko pressed.

Jet’s voice stayed formal, but something quiet sat under it. “I can put you in the same place,” he said. “I cannot guarantee you control what happens once you’re there.”

Zuko’s scar twitched.

He knew Jet was right.

He hated it.

“Fine,” Zuko said flatly. “You get me close. I’ll handle the rest.”

Jet nodded once. “Understood.”

A beat.

Then, because Zuko couldn’t help himself, he added, sharper than necessary, “Don’t let Katara distract you.”

Jet’s eyes flicked up. “She isn’t.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Good.”

Jet watched him for a long second, then spoke more quietly.

“She’s not the one I’m choosing,” Jet said. “I’m choosing the job.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. He looked away. “Take your post.”

Jet moved to the window.

Outside, Ba Sing Se breathed its perfect, lying breath.

Inside, Zuko lay back down and stared at the ceiling, heart too loud.

Appa had a lead.

The Avatar was close.

The apartment was quiet in the way it only got when Ba Sing Se was asleep but still listening.

The brazier had burned down to dull coals. Iroh was out cold on his mat, snoring softly, one arm flung over his stomach like he’d won a battle against dinner. The window rattled with a winter draft.

Zuko sat on the floor by the window with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, a cigarette pinched between two fingers like he didn’t know whether he hated it or needed it more. The ember glowed and faded with each shallow pull.

Jet sat a few feet away, closer to the window than Zuko, as if even relaxing required him to keep one eye on the street. He’d found the cigarettes somewhere—traded for, stolen, acquired. Zuko hadn’t asked. Jet hadn’t offered an explanation.

For once, neither of them spoke.

Smoke drifted up in thin ribbons, catching the candlelight and dissolving into shadow.

Jet exhaled through his nose and stared out at the dark street below. “You’re getting worse at pretending.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

Jet’s mouth twitched, humorless. “Sure.”

Zuko took another drag and kept his eyes on the ember. “What do you want.”

Jet didn’t answer right away. He tapped ash into an empty tea tin with careful precision, like everything he did had to be controlled or it would become dangerous.

Then he said, too casually, “What do you think she’d do?”

Zuko’s brow furrowed. “Who.”

Jet glanced at him like Zuko was being slow on purpose. “Jin.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. “Why are we talking about her.”

Jet’s gaze went back out the window. “Because you keep going out with her like this city can’t bite.” A beat. “And because you look like you’re building something you can’t keep.”

Zuko’s fingers curled around the cigarette. “Just say what you mean.”

Jet finally turned his head, eyes sharp in the dim light. His voice was quiet—almost gentle, which made it worse.

“What would Jin do,” Jet asked, “if she found out you weren’t Lee.”

Zuko didn’t breathe for a second.

Jet continued before Zuko could cut him off. “If she found out you were the ashmaker prince.”

Zuko’s scar twitched. The cigarette trembled slightly between his fingers, and he hated that Jet would notice.

“Don’t call me that,” Zuko said, low.

Jet’s expression didn’t change. “People do.”

Zuko swallowed hard. Smoke burned his throat, grounding and ugly. “She won’t find out.”

Jet’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not an answer.”

Zuko’s voice sharpened. “She’d hate me. Happy?”

Jet watched him for a long beat, then shook his head once. “No.”

Zuko’s glare snapped up. “What do you mean no.”

Jet’s jaw flexed as if he was choosing whether to say something that might get him burned. He took a drag, exhaled slowly, and said, “She’d be afraid first.”

Zuko’s stomach dropped.

Jet’s gaze stayed on him. “Not of you—of what it means. Of what it drags into her life. Dai Li. Fire Nation. War. All of it.”

Zuko’s hands clenched. “You don’t know her.”

Jet’s mouth twisted. “I know people.”

Zuko looked away, jaw tight. The cigarette ember flared as he pulled too hard.

Jet’s voice softened a fraction. “She’d ask questions,” he said. “And you’d try to answer like you’re still pretending you’re not… you.”

Zuko’s throat burned. “Stop.”

Jet didn’t. “And then she’d look at your scar and realize the story in her head was wrong.”

Zuko’s fingers went cold. “My scar—”

Jet’s eyes stayed steady. “She hates the Fire Nation,” he said quietly. “She hates what they did to people. She thinks you’re one of the people they did it to.”

Zuko’s chest tightened like a fist closing.

“I am,” Zuko muttered.

Jet’s gaze sharpened. “Not the way she thinks.”

Silence stretched, thick with smoke.

Zuko tapped ash into the tin too hard. It scattered like gray snow. He stared at the flecks and felt his teeth grind.

“I didn’t choose this,” he said.

Jet didn’t argue that. He just watched him.

Zuko’s voice came rougher. “I didn’t choose to be born into it. I didn’t choose to—” He stopped, because his anger always snagged on the same thing: how helpless the truth made him sound.

Jet took a slow breath. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “I know.”

Zuko’s eyes flicked to him. “Do you.”

Jet’s expression tightened, and for a moment his formal mask cracked. “Zuko. I watched you grow up under a man who doesn’t know what love is. I watched you learn how to flinch without moving. Don’t ask me if I know.”

Zuko swallowed hard.

Jet looked away again, as if he regretted saying that much.

The candle guttered. Iroh snored, oblivious.

Zuko’s voice dropped to something almost honest. “She’d leave.”

Jet didn’t answer immediately.

When he did, it wasn’t snide. It wasn’t formal. It was careful.

“She might,” Jet said. “Or she might surprise you.”

Zuko scoffed, but it came out thin. “People don’t surprise me.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “You’re surprised every time she smiles at you.”

Zuko’s ears warmed. “Shut up.”

Jet leaned back against the wall, cigarette glowing like a tiny warning. “I’m not saying tell her,” he said. “I’m saying… don’t act like the truth doesn’t exist. It catches up. It always does.”

Zuko stared at the smoke curling off the end of his cigarette.

A memory flashed—Jin’s hand on his sleeve, gentle. Jin saying I like you. Jin’s eyes steady, unafraid.

His throat tightened.

“What would you do,” Zuko asked suddenly, voice sharp like he didn’t care, “if she found out?”

Jet’s gaze slid to him. “Me?”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. You’re always calculating. Always deciding what’s safe. So tell me.”

Jet exhaled slowly. “I’d get her out of the way.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “So she doesn’t get hurt.”

“So she doesn’t get used,” Jet corrected, quiet. “People in this city use anything that looks soft.”

Zuko’s fingers tightened around the cigarette. “She’s not soft.”

Jet’s eyes flicked, almost amused. “You’re defending her now?”

Zuko glared. “I’m stating a fact.”

Jet nodded as if accepting the correction, then asked—too calmly—“So what do you do, ashmaker prince?”

Zuko’s scar twitched again. He didn’t answer at first.

He watched the ember burn down, orange to gray, and felt the question settle in his chest like ash.

Then he said, very quietly, “I don’t know.”

Jet’s expression softened just a fraction, like that was the first honest thing he’d heard all night.

He tapped his cigarette into the tin and stood, moving back to the window. Formal again. Controlled again.

But his voice, when it came, was lower than before.

“Then figure it out,” Jet said. “Before she has to.”

Zuko stared at the last thread of smoke drifting toward the ceiling, and for once, he didn’t have a sharp comeback.

He just sat there in the dim apartment, listening to Iroh’s steady breathing and the city’s distant hush, and felt the truth press in from every side—inevitable as dawn.

Chapter Text

Zuko’s fever came on like a sneak attack.

It started as a dull ache behind his eyes while he was stacking cups at the shop, a heat that didn’t match the winter air. By the time they got home, his steps had gone uneven and his temper—already sharp—kept slipping.

“I’m fine,” he snapped when Iroh reached for his forehead.

Iroh didn’t argue. He just hummed, like he’d heard that exact sentence from Zuko a thousand times.

“You are many things, nephew,” Iroh said gently. “But you are not a convincing liar when you are sick.”

Zuko tried to glare. It came out more like a wince.

Iroh guided him down onto his mat with a careful hand at his shoulder. Zuko let it happen, which was its own kind of confession.

Jet hovered near the window, arms crossed, scanning the street like an enemy might kick the door in and demand Zuko’s temperature. His eyes flicked to Zuko—fast, assessing—then away again. Like looking too long would make the vulnerability real.

Iroh moved quietly around the tiny kitchen space, the apartment filling with the comforting, maddening smell of simmering rice.

“Jook,” Iroh announced, as if declaring a royal banquet.

Zuko’s voice was rough. “I don’t want—”

“You will eat,” Iroh said, pleasant in the way that meant there would be no discussion. “Then you will sleep. Then you will stop trying to fight your own body.”

Zuko muttered something incoherent that might’ve been an insult or might’ve been a surrender.

Iroh brought the bowl over and set it in Zuko’s hands. Warm ceramic. Warm porridge. Warmth that felt too gentle for someone who’d spent most of his life treating comfort like a trap.

Zuko stared at it, blinking slowly. Sweat dampened his hair at the temples. His scar looked darker against fever-flushed skin.

“I can feed myself,” he insisted, voice weak with stubbornness.

Iroh smiled. “I know.”

And then he proceeded to feed him anyway.

Small spoonfuls. Patient pauses. The calm, steady rhythm of someone who’d done this before—maybe with soldiers in tents, maybe with Zuko as a child, maybe with both.

Zuko ate because the alternative was arguing, and he didn’t have enough fire left for that.

Jet didn’t say anything. But Zuko felt him move—felt the shift of weight across the room. A quiet repositioning so Jet was closer to the mats than the window now, like he’d decided the bigger threat was inside Zuko’s own head.

When the bowl was empty, Iroh pressed a cool cloth to Zuko’s forehead.

“Try to rest,” Iroh said softly. “Your body is doing hard work.”

Zuko swallowed. “I hate this.”

“I know,” Iroh murmured. “But even princes must sometimes surrender.”

Zuko’s eyes closed. His lashes trembled. “Don’t call me—”

Iroh chuckled under his breath. “Sleep.”

Zuko fell into it like falling through thin ice.

The nightmares came fast.

Not the slow, creeping kind. The kind that grabbed his throat the moment his body stopped fighting wakefulness.

He was back in the palace again—too bright, too clean. He could smell incense and ash.

Ozai’s silhouette filled the throne room like a shadow that swallowed everything.

Kneel.

Zuko’s knees hit the floor. His hands shook. He opened his mouth to speak and no sound came out—only smoke.

His scar burned, molten and raw all over again.

The throne room warped into Ba Sing Se’s streets—walls rising and rising until the sky was only a thin strip of gray. Lanterns turned into eyes. Every smile turned sharp.

Jin stood at the end of the street holding a cup of tea. She looked up, saw him—

—and her face shifted with horror.

“You lied,” she whispered.

Zuko tried to reach her. His feet were stuck in mud. The mud turned to chains. The chains turned to hands dragging him backward.

He thrashed, choking on panic, heat spiking—

“No—” he rasped, half-awake, half still drowning. “No—stop—”

His body jerked on the mat. The blanket tangled around his legs. Sweat soaked his shirt.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Firm. Warm. Real.

Zuko flinched violently, eyes snapping open to darkness.

Jet crouched beside him, close enough that Zuko could see the pale glint of his eyes in the dim light. Jet’s hand stayed where it was—steady, not pinning him, just anchoring.

“Hey,” Jet whispered.

Zuko’s breathing came ragged. His heart slammed like it wanted out of his ribs. His eyes darted around, searching for enemies that weren’t there.

Jet’s voice stayed low, controlled. “It’s the apartment. You’re sick. You’re safe.”

Zuko swallowed, throat raw. “I—”

“You’re dreaming,” Jet said, and the fact that he didn’t sound annoyed—didn’t sound smug—made something in Zuko’s chest tighten painfully.

Zuko’s hands shook. He hated that Jet could see it.

Jet’s thumb pressed lightly at Zuko’s shoulder through the fabric—one small, grounding pressure. “Breathe,” he murmured. “In. Out.”

Zuko tried. Failed the first time. Tried again. The air went in like it was fighting him.

Jet didn’t rush him.

“I saw you like this in the palace,” Jet whispered. “After.”

Zuko’s eyes squeezed shut. Shame flared hot and immediate. “Don’t.”

Jet’s hand didn’t move. “Not talking about it,” Jet said quietly. “Just… reminding you you’ve gotten through it before.”

Zuko’s breath hitched, then started to slow—still uneven, but less wild.

Jet leaned in slightly, voice softer, almost hesitant. “You’re here,” he said. “Not there.”

Zuko opened his eyes again. The ceiling was cracked plaster. The room smelled faintly like rice porridge and tea. Iroh’s snore rumbled from the other mat, oblivious and steady.

Jet’s face was close, but not too close. Careful.

Zuko’s voice came out hoarse. “Why are you—”

Jet cut him off before Zuko could build a wall out of pride. “Because you’re burning up and your brain’s trying to kill you,” he whispered, blunt. Then, quieter: “And because you don’t have to do that part alone.”

Zuko stared at him, fever-bright and stunned.

Jet looked away first, jaw tightening like he regretted the softness. But his hand didn’t leave Zuko’s shoulder.

“Go back to sleep,” Jet said.

Zuko swallowed. “I can’t.”

Jet’s voice dropped even lower, almost inaudible. “Then don’t sleep. Just rest.”

Zuko’s eyelids fluttered, heavy again now that the panic had loosened its grip.

Jet shifted, settling against the wall beside him like a guard at a doorway, one knee drawn up, posture still alert—but closer than usual.

Zuko’s voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t… go.”

Jet’s head turned sharply, surprise flickering across his face.

Zuko’s eyes were already closing again, the words dragged out of him by exhaustion before he could take them back.

Jet stared for a long beat… then his expression smoothed into something controlled again, only gentler at the edges.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jet whispered.

Zuko’s breathing steadied, slow and hot. The fever still burned, the nightmares still lurked at the edges, but there was a weight beside him now—solid, watchful.

Jet’s voice came once more, so quiet it was almost part of the wind at the window.

“Just breathe,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

The fever burned hotter sometime after midnight.

Zuko drifted in and out of sleep like he was drowning—eyes opening to shapes that didn’t hold still, sounds stretching wrong, the room tilting subtly as if the floorboards were breathing.

He heard movement. A soft scrape. A low voice.

A hand touched his forehead.

Zuko jerked violently, scrambling backward on the mat, blankets tangling around his legs.

“No—” he rasped, throat raw. “Don’t—don’t touch me—”

“Zuko,” Iroh said, gentle. “It’s just me. You’re burning up.”

The words didn’t land right.

In the dim light, Iroh’s silhouette was too big, too solid. The warmth in his voice twisted into something deeper, crueler in Zuko’s fevered mind—like kindness was just another mask someone wore before they hurt you.

Zuko’s eyes widened, wild. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head so hard it made him dizzy. “No, no—”

Iroh leaned closer, the candlelight catching his face—

—and the fever slammed the memory over it like a sheet of fire.

For a heartbeat, Zuko didn’t see Iroh.

He saw the throne room.

He saw the shape of a crown, a shadow too long, eyes like burning coals.

Ozai.

Zuko’s breath hitched into a strangled sound. He tried to crawl away, palms slipping on the mat. Terror shot through him so sharp it tasted metallic.

“No,” he said again, louder now, voice cracking. “Don’t—please—please—”

Iroh froze, alarm flickering over his face. “Zuko, nephew, listen—”

“Don’t call me that,” Zuko snarled, panicked, backing into the wall. “Don’t—don’t—”

Iroh’s hand lifted again, instinctive, wanting to help.

Zuko recoiled like the air itself was a blade. “DON’T!”

The shout jolted the room.

Iroh’s eyes went wide—not offended, just worried, deeply. “Zuko… you’re sick. You’re not seeing clearly.”

Zuko’s vision swam. The candle flame split into two, then three. The shadows stretched across Iroh’s face, carving it into something harder, stranger. Zuko’s mind grabbed at the worst possible shape and wouldn’t let go.

His voice turned small, ragged. “I didn’t mean— I didn’t— I’m sorry, Father—”

Iroh’s expression broke, pain crossing it fast.

Before he could speak again, another shape moved in—quick, controlled.

Jet.

He slid between Iroh and Zuko without a word, blocking Zuko’s line of sight like he was shutting a door. His hands were up, palms open, calm in the way of someone who had learned that panic was contagious.

“Hey,” Jet said softly. “Zuko. Look at me.”

Zuko’s eyes snapped to him, frantic. “Jet—Jet—he’s—”

“I know,” Jet cut in gently, voice steady. “I see him.”

Zuko’s breath came in sharp, broken pulls. “He’s—he’s here—”

Jet lowered himself to Zuko’s level, making himself smaller. Non-threatening. Familiar.

“It’s not him,” Jet said, quiet and absolute. “It’s Iroh.”

Zuko shook his head hard, tears stinging with fever and fear. “No—no—don’t lie—don’t—”

Jet didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice. He shifted closer, careful, and put one hand on Zuko’s forearm—not gripping, just anchoring.

“Zuko,” Jet murmured, “breathe with me.”

Zuko’s chest heaved. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Jet said, like it was an order and a promise at the same time. “In.”

Jet inhaled slowly, exaggerated it.

Zuko’s body tried to mimic it and failed, catching on a sob.

Jet didn’t react. “Again,” he said, patient. “In.”

This time Zuko got a shaky breath in.

“Out,” Jet whispered.

Zuko exhaled, trembling.

Jet’s other hand came up, firm at the back of Zuko’s neck, guiding his focus like you’d guide someone away from a ledge. “Good,” Jet said softly. “That’s it.”

Iroh hovered behind Jet, frozen with worry.

Jet didn’t look back, but his voice stayed controlled as he spoke to Iroh. “Uncle,” he said quietly, “step back. Sit down. Let him see you lower.”

Iroh immediately obeyed, sinking onto his mat at a distance, hands visible, voice gentle. “Zuko… it is Iroh. I am here.”

Zuko’s eyes flicked past Jet, catching Iroh seated on the floor—smaller, softer.

The crown in his mind wavered.

Jet leaned in closer, voice low, intimate. “Ozai doesn’t sit,” Jet said. “He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t speak like that.”

Zuko’s breath hitched. His eyes searched Jet’s face like he was trying to find the truth by force.

Jet held steady, unblinking. “You’re in Ba Sing Se,” he whispered. “Lower Ring. Our apartment. Your uncle made congee. You hate it when it’s too thick.”

Zuko made a weak, confused sound. “I… I don’t…”

“You do,” Jet said, almost fond. “You complain and then you eat it anyway.”

A tiny crack of reality opened.

Zuko’s shoulders sagged a fraction, the panic still there but less sharp. His body shook hard, exhausted.

Jet didn’t give him time to slip back under.

He shifted forward and wrapped his arms around Zuko—careful, firm, full contact. Not restraining, just holding. Anchoring.

Zuko stiffened at first, then—like his body recognized safety before his mind could—he sagged into Jet’s chest with a broken, hot breath.

Jet’s chin dipped toward Zuko’s hair. “There,” he murmured. “There you are.”

Zuko’s voice came out small. “He’s going to—”

“No,” Jet said immediately. “Not tonight. Not here.”

Zuko’s hands clutched at Jet’s shirt like he was afraid of falling out of the world.

Jet held him tighter, rocking once, barely. “You’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re sick. That’s all. It’s just sickness making your brain cruel.”

Zuko’s breathing started to slow—still shaky, but less frantic.

Jet kept one arm around him and reached out with the other, beckoning without looking. “Bowl,” he said quietly.

Iroh moved quickly, grateful for something to do. He brought the warm congee and a spoon, setting it close.

Jet adjusted his grip so Zuko was still supported, half-curled against him. “Okay,” Jet murmured near Zuko’s ear. “We’re going to eat. Small bites. Then you can sleep again.”

Zuko blinked slowly, eyelids heavy. “I… can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Jet said, steady. He scooped a spoonful and held it near Zuko’s mouth. “Open.”

Zuko hesitated like the spoon was suspicious, then finally parted his lips. The congee slid in warm.

He swallowed, throat working.

Jet’s voice softened. “Good.”

Another spoonful. Then another.

Between bites, Jet kept talking—low, simple facts, like laying stones across a river.

“Tea shop opens late tomorrow.”
“Iroh’s going to pretend you’re not sick so you don’t feel weak.”
“I’m going to tell him you’re sick anyway.”
“You’re going to hate the medicine. You’ll take it.”

Zuko’s grip on Jet’s shirt loosened gradually, replaced by the heavy, hot exhaustion of someone finally losing the fight.

His eyes fluttered. “Jet…”

“Yeah,” Jet whispered.

Zuko’s voice cracked, barely audible. “Don’t let him…”

Jet knew who he meant. His jaw tightened.

“I won’t,” Jet promised, simple and fierce. “Not while I’m breathing.”

Zuko’s eyes closed. His forehead pressed faintly into Jet’s shoulder like he couldn’t manage more movement than that.

Jet fed him two more spoonfuls, then set the bowl aside carefully.

He didn’t let go.

He kept his arms around Zuko, one hand steady at the back of his head, the other on his shoulder—anchoring him to the room, to the present, to the fact that Ozai was not here.

Iroh watched from his mat, eyes wet and silent, and after a long moment he whispered, “Thank you, Jet.”

Jet didn’t look up. His voice stayed low, meant only for the dark and the fever.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured to Zuko. “I’ve got you.”

And this time, when Zuko fell under, the fear didn’t chase him so quickly—held back, for a little while longer, by the steady weight of Jet’s arms and the warm, bland taste of congee still on his tongue.

Morning light in the Lower Ring was never kind.

It filtered through the window in pale, dusty bars, catching on steam from the kettle and the faint haze of yesterday’s smoke. The apartment smelled like rice porridge and medicinal herbs—warm and bland and safe in a way Zuko didn’t know how to accept without getting angry at it.

He woke up dry.

Not well—his throat still felt scraped raw, his limbs heavy—but the crushing heat was gone. The world held steady when he blinked. The ceiling was just cracked plaster again, not a throne room.

He lay there for a moment, listening.

Iroh hummed softly by the table, stirring something in a pot. The sound was gentle, domestic—too gentle for how sharp Zuko felt inside.

Jet was by the window like always, but slumped slightly, like he’d never fully slept. One hand was braced on the sill, eyes on the street out of habit, not urgency.

Zuko swallowed. His mouth tasted like congee and shame.

He pushed himself up on one elbow. His joints protested, but his mind was clear enough now to remember flashes: his own voice shouting. The terror. Jet’s arms around him. The way he’d clutched Jet like a lifeline.

His stomach twisted.

Iroh turned at the sound, face lighting immediately. “Ah! Zuko. You are awake.”

Zuko blinked at him. Iroh looked tired around the eyes, but his smile was warm anyway.

“How do you feel?” Iroh asked, already moving closer.

Zuko’s throat worked. “Better.”

Iroh reached out, then paused, careful—remembering the way Zuko had screamed at him in the night. His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes softened with something like relief and restraint.

“That is good,” Iroh said gently. “Your fever has broken.”

Zuko’s chest tightened. “Uncle…”

Iroh hummed as if inviting him to speak without pushing.

Zuko’s gaze flicked toward Jet, then back to Iroh. His voice came out rough. “I’m sorry.”

Iroh’s brows lifted slightly. “For being ill?” he teased softly, offering Zuko an easy exit.

Zuko didn’t take it. “For… last night.”

Iroh’s expression softened completely. “Zuko,” he said, very quiet, “there is nothing to forgive.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “I thought you were—” He stopped, the words catching like splinters. “I said things.”

Iroh stepped closer and set a hand on Zuko’s shoulder—light, careful. “You were frightened,” he said. “And sick. The mind can be cruel when the body is weak.”

Zuko stared down, throat burning. “Still.”

Iroh’s hand squeezed once. “Still,” he agreed softly, and the single word held all the forgiveness Zuko didn’t think he deserved.

Zuko’s eyes flicked to Jet again.

Jet had gone very still, like he’d been listening without meaning to.

Zuko forced himself to meet his gaze. His voice came out lower. “Jet.”

Jet’s eyes held his, guarded and tired. “Yeah?”

Zuko swallowed. He hated apologies. They made him feel small. They made him feel… exposed.

But he’d been exposed anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko said, the words stiff but real. “For… all of it. For yelling. For—” his throat tightened, “—for thinking you had to hold me like that.”

Jet’s mouth twitched, almost incredulous. “You’re apologizing for me doing my job?”

Zuko’s ears warmed. “You know what I mean.”

Jet watched him for a long beat, then his gaze dropped—briefly—to the blanket pooled at Zuko’s waist, to the space between them, like he was deciding whether to let the moment stay formal and distant.

When he looked back up, something in his face had softened.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Jet said quietly. “You were out of your head.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “I still—” He exhaled. “I don’t… remember everything.”

Jet’s voice went even gentler, almost reluctant. “You called him ‘Father.’” He nodded toward Iroh without looking. “You told me not to leave.”

Heat crawled up Zuko’s neck. He stared at the floorboards like they were suddenly fascinating. “Oh.”

Iroh cleared his throat delicately, pretending to be very interested in his pot. “I will… check the congee,” he announced, entirely unnecessary, and turned his back to give them space.

Zuko’s voice went smaller, irritated at itself. “I didn’t mean to—”

Jet stepped forward.

For once, he didn’t stop at the respectful distance. He crossed it in two strides and crouched beside Zuko’s mat, close enough that Zuko could feel the warmth of him without the fever.

Jet’s eyes were sharp, but not cruel. “You meant it,” Jet said quietly. “In the only way you could.”

Zuko’s chest tightened. “Don’t—”

Jet didn’t let him build the wall. He reached out and grabbed Zuko—just pulled him in, sudden and sure.

It wasn’t gentle like last night had been. It was a full, tight hug, the kind that said shut up, you’re alive, I’m here.

Zuko stiffened on instinct, then felt his body betray him—shoulders loosening, breath catching. His hands hovered awkwardly for a second before landing against Jet’s back, uncertain.

Jet exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for days.

And then, because Jet apparently couldn’t do anything halfway, he shifted his weight to adjust—

Only his knee caught the edge of the mat.

His balance went.

Jet went down with a muffled, surprised curse, landing half on Zuko, half on the blankets in an ungainly sprawl.

The air whooshed out of Zuko’s lungs. “Jet—!”

Jet froze, suddenly very aware of where he’d landed.

One forearm was braced beside Zuko’s head. His hip pressed against Zuko’s thigh. Their chests were close enough that Zuko could feel Jet’s heartbeat—steady, controlled… and then not so controlled at all.

Zuko’s face went hot instantly.

Jet’s eyes met his, wide for half a second, then narrowed like he was trying to pretend this was nothing.

“Shut up,” Jet muttered, as if Zuko had pushed him.

“I didn’t—” Zuko began, voice cracking with indignation.

Jet’s gaze flicked—briefly, stupidly—to Zuko’s mouth, then snapped back to his eyes.

The room went too quiet.

Iroh’s spoon clinked against the pot in the most aggressively innocent sound in history.

Zuko swallowed. His hands were still on Jet’s back, fingers curled in the fabric. He hadn’t let go.

Jet didn’t move away immediately either.

For a heartbeat, they just… stayed there, breathing the same air, pretending they weren’t.

Zuko’s voice came out low and rough. “Get off.”

Jet’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You’re the one holding me.”

Zuko’s cheeks flared hotter. “I’m not—”

Jet shifted slightly, careful now. The movement dragged their bodies against each other in a way that made Zuko’s brain blank.

Zuko went rigid, eyes wide.

Jet went still too, jaw tightening like he’d just realized the same thing.

Then, abruptly, Jet pushed himself up and off Zuko in one smooth motion, rolling onto his knees like nothing had happened.

His ears were red.

He cleared his throat once, sharp, and stood up too fast. “You should eat,” he said, voice suddenly formal as armor. “You’re still weak.”

Zuko sat there, breathing too hard for no reason, blanket bunched in his fists. “I’m not weak.”

Jet didn’t look at him. “Sure.”

Zuko glared at the wall, because glaring at Jet felt dangerous right now.

Iroh turned back around with a bowl and a smile that was entirely too calm. “Ah,” he said pleasantly. “I see you are both awake and… coordinated.”

Zuko’s face went nuclear. “Uncle.”

Iroh set the bowl down in front of Zuko with exaggerated innocence. “Eat,” he instructed. “Then rest. The two of you can practice… coordination another time.”

“UNCLE,” Zuko snapped, mortified.

Jet made a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh swallowed into a cough.

Zuko wanted to die.

But as he picked up the spoon, his hand brushed Jet’s fingers—just barely—where Jet hovered to steady the bowl.

Jet didn’t pull away.

He just muttered, low enough that only Zuko could hear, “You’re okay.”

Zuko’s throat tightened.

He didn’t look up. He just nodded once, stiff, and ate the congee while the morning light crept across the floor—warm, ordinary, and quietly full of things neither of them knew how to name yet.

Chapter Text

Iroh left with the kind of cheerfulness that felt like a personal attack.

He’d packed the tea tins, kissed his fingers and tapped them to Zuko’s forehead like it was a blessing, and told him—firmly, gently, annoyingly—that he was not to lift anything heavier than a kettle until tomorrow.

Then he’d glanced at Jet with that too-knowing warmth and said, “Please keep him from doing anything foolish.”

Jet had answered, crisp, “Yes, sir.”

Zuko had muttered, “I’m right here.”

Iroh had smiled like he hadn’t heard and walked out anyway.

So Zuko sat at one of the tea shop’s back tables, wrapped in his coat even though the brazier was lit, a cup of ginger tea in his hands. He still felt wrung out—like his body had been scrubbed raw from the inside—but at least the room wasn’t spinning anymore.

Jet sat across from him with his own cup, posture a touch too straight for a “break,” eyes still tracking the door and windows out of habit. But he’d stayed. Close.

Zuko told himself it was annoying.

He told himself it didn’t make him feel… steadier.

They drank in silence for a while, steam curling between them.

Zuko finally muttered, “Stop looking at the door.”

Jet didn’t look away. “No.”

Zuko scowled. “We’re in a tea shop. In the Lower Ring. No one’s here to assassinate me.”

Jet took a slow sip. “That’s when they’d do it.”

Zuko glared. “You’re impossible.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “Correct.”

Zuko huffed, then took another sip. His throat still hurt, but the ginger helped. He hated that he could admit that now without feeling like he’d lost.

The bell over the door chimed.

Zuko’s head lifted automatically—and for once it wasn’t only because he was trained to react.

Jin stepped in, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf loosened around her neck. She spotted Zuko immediately and her face lit up—

until her eyes landed on Jet.

She slowed a fraction, polite curiosity flickering across her expression. Then she smiled anyway, bright and friendly in the way Zuko didn’t understand how anyone managed in a city like this.

“Hi!” Jin said, waving. “Lee.”

Zuko’s ears warmed. “Hi.”

Jin approached their table, gaze moving between them. “Oh—are you… on break?”

Zuko opened his mouth, but Jet beat him to it.

“Doctor’s orders,” Jet said smoothly, smile appearing like he’d pulled it out of a pocket. “He’s not allowed to do anything strenuous. Tragic.”

Zuko narrowed his eyes. “I’m not tragic.”

Jin laughed, delighted. “You were sick? Lee!”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “It wasn’t—”

“He had a fever,” Jet said, still smiling, as if he was telling a charming anecdote instead of exposing Zuko’s humiliation to the world. “Almost melted into the floor. Very dramatic.”

Zuko’s face went hot. “Jet.”

Jin’s eyes widened with concern. “Oh no! Are you okay?”

Zuko shot Jet a murderous look. “I’m fine.”

Jet leaned back, casual. “He’s lying.”

Zuko’s glare sharpened. “Stop.”

Jin hovered for a second like she didn’t know whether to sit or flee. “Um—should I—”

“You should sit,” Jet said instantly, warm and welcoming. He gestured to the bench with an easy grace that made him look like he’d never been uncomfortable in his life. “If you want. Unless you’re busy.”

Jin blinked, then smiled. “I can sit for a minute.”

Zuko’s stomach tightened, irrational and immediate, as Jin slid onto the bench beside Jet.

Beside Jet.

Not across from Zuko.

Jet turned slightly toward her, giving her his full attention like she was the most interesting thing in the room. “I’m Jet,” he said, voice smooth. “I don’t think we’ve officially met.”

Jin brightened. “I’m Jin!”

Jet’s smile deepened. “I know.”

Jin blinked. “You do?”

Jet nodded, totally unbothered. “He talks about you.”

Zuko choked on his tea so hard his eyes watered.

“Jet!” Zuko hissed, coughing.

Jin’s eyes went wide. “He does?”

Jet didn’t even glance at Zuko’s near-death experience. “All the time,” he said, tone perfectly casual. “It’s actually a little exhausting.”

Zuko wheezed, face blazing. “That’s—”

Jin turned to Zuko, cheeks warming with delighted surprise. “Lee—really?”

Zuko’s brain shorted out. “No. I mean—” He glared at Jet. “He’s lying.”

Jet’s brows lifted, innocent. “Am I?”

Zuko’s scar twitched. “Yes!”

Jin laughed, eyes sparkling. “Okay, now I really want to know what he says.”

Zuko’s whole body went hot. “Nothing. I don’t—”

Jet leaned closer to Jin, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “He pretends he doesn’t like the ginger tea,” he said. “But when he’s sick, he drinks three cups.”

Zuko snapped, “That’s not—”

Jin’s smile softened, warm and fond. “That’s kind of sweet.”

Zuko’s ears turned red. “It’s not sweet, it’s—practical.”

Jet nodded solemnly. “Very practical. That’s what he says about everything.”

Jin giggled, then covered her mouth like she was trying to be polite. “I’m sorry. It’s just—he’s so serious.”

Jet tilted his head, studying her as if she’d said something profound. “Serious,” he repeated thoughtfully. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

Zuko narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

Jet looked at him with mild surprise. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t—” Zuko gestured vaguely at Jet’s entire demeanor, at the easy charm, the soft voice, the way Jin was already leaning forward, engaged. “Do that.”

Jet’s mouth curved. “Do what? Be polite?”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “You’re not being polite.”

Jin blinked between them, amused. “Are you two always like this?”

Jet answered immediately, smile bright. “Only when we like someone.”

Zuko’s heart did an unpleasant flip. “Jet.”

Jin’s cheeks warmed. She glanced at Zuko, then away again, smiling into her tea. “Oh.”

Zuko wanted to sink under the table.

Jet, apparently deciding to make it worse on purpose, turned back to Jin and asked, “So, Jin—what’s your secret? How do you get him to talk?”

Zuko snapped, “She doesn’t.”

Jin laughed. “I do! Sometimes.”

Jet’s smile turned conspiratorial. “Teach me.”

Jin leaned in, playful. “Okay. Rule one: don’t ask him direct questions. He hates that.”

Jet nodded, utterly serious. “Noted.”

Zuko glared at both of them. “Can you not turn me into a project?”

Jin’s eyes softened. “You’re not a project.”

Jet’s tone stayed light. “He’s a challenge, though.”

Zuko’s glare sharpened. “I’m not a challenge.”

Jin smiled at Zuko, warm and steady. “He is a little bit.”

Zuko’s face heated so hard he felt it all the way down his neck. “You—”

Jet laughed quietly, pleased with himself.

Zuko narrowed his eyes at Jet. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

Jet blinked, wide-eyed innocence. “Doing what?”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Flirting.”

Jin’s eyes widened. “Flirting?”

Jet’s smile deepened, and he finally—finally—glanced at Zuko with a look that said yes, absolutely, and you deserve it.

Then he turned back to Jin, voice smooth as poured tea. “Not flirting,” he said. “Just making conversation. Unless you want it to be flirting.”

Zuko’s cup nearly cracked in his grip.

Jin went red, laughing and flustered. “Oh my gosh.”

Zuko’s voice came out low and dangerous. “Jet.”

Jet leaned back, satisfied, as if he’d just won a pai sho match. “What? You told me to act like a person.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “Not like that.”

Jet’s grin turned sharp and victorious. “You prefer me formal?”

Zuko’s cheeks burned. “Stop talking.”

Jin looked between them, delighted and confused. “Wait—why does it feel like I just walked into something?”

Zuko snapped, too fast, “You didn’t.”

Jet lifted his cup to hide his smile. “She did.”

Zuko’s glare could’ve lit the brazier.

Jin, still smiling, reached across the table and lightly touched Zuko’s sleeve, grounding him the way she always did without realizing it. “Lee,” she said softly, “are you sure you’re okay? You look… flushed.”

Zuko’s brain fizzled. “It’s—” He shot Jet one last murderous look. “It’s nothing.”

Jet’s eyes gleamed over the rim of his cup.

“Sure,” he said sweetly. “Nothing at all.”

Jin settled in like she belonged there.

She tucked her scarf into her coat, warmed her hands around her cup, and kept glancing at Zuko with that soft concern that made him want to both melt and flee. Meanwhile Jet looked entirely too comfortable, elbow on the table, eyes bright with mischief.

Zuko took one slow sip of ginger tea and muttered, “If you tell her anything else, I’m kicking you out.”

Jet’s smile turned angelic. “Me? I’m just being friendly.”

Jin’s eyes flicked between them. “You two are… really something.”

Jet nodded solemnly. “We hear that a lot.”

“We do not,” Zuko snapped.

Jin laughed. “You do now.”

Jet leaned slightly toward Jin, dropping his voice into conspiratorial mode. “Okay, if you want the truth—he’s actually not as scary as he pretends.”

Zuko narrowed his eyes. “I’m not pretending.”

Jin’s smile widened. “You’re a little scary.”

Jet pointed at her like she’d proved a theory. “See? That’s the reputation. But the reality?” He tapped the table once. “The reality is he has the survival instincts of a feral alley cat and the social instincts of—”

“Jet,” Zuko warned.

Jet didn’t even look at him. “—of a brick.”

Jin made a squeaking sound and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh no.”

Zuko’s ears went hot. “I have social instincts.”

Jin wiped at the corner of her eye, already laughing. “Do you?”

Jet sat back, satisfied, then added lightly, “Don’t worry. It’s endearing.”

Zuko muttered into his tea, “I hate both of you.”

Jin leaned toward him, grinning. “No you don’t.”

Jet nodded. “No, he doesn’t.”

Zuko’s glare flicked between them—then he realized he was fighting a losing battle and slumped slightly in his chair with a huff.

Jin brightened immediately at the tiny surrender. “Okay, fine. If we’re doing stories, I get one too.”

Zuko’s head snapped up. “No.”

Jet lifted a hand. “Agreed. Absolutely not. Your stories will destroy him.”

Jin gasped in mock offense. “Excuse you.”

Jet’s eyes gleamed. “Jin, I’ve known him since he was a kid. I have material.”

Zuko’s stomach dropped. “No. You don’t.”

Jet smiled wider. “Oh, I do.”

Jin leaned in, elbows on the table like she’d just been handed a treasure map. “Tell me.”

Zuko pointed at Jet. “Don’t.”

Jet took a slow sip, savoring Zuko’s suffering. “All right,” he said, too pleased. “Here’s a harmless one.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “There are no harmless ones.”

Jet ignored him. “Back in the palace—” he began.

Zuko hissed, “Jet.”

Jin’s eyes widened. “Wait. Palace?”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “You know, metaphorical palace. Like… the place he grew up.”

Zuko shot him a look that could’ve melted steel. Jet didn’t even flinch. He just smoothly kept going.

“He was maybe twelve,” Jet said, “and he got it into his head that he needed to train ‘harder than everyone.’ So he started waking up before dawn. On purpose.”

Jin blinked. “That sounds like him.”

Zuko muttered, “It was training.”

Jet held up a finger. “He’d sneak down to the courtyard, do forms until his arms shook, and then—” Jet’s smile turned wicked. “He’d steal buns from the kitchen because he refused to admit he was hungry.”

Jin made a delighted noise. “You stole buns?”

Zuko’s face went scarlet. “It was… not stealing. It was—”

“Strategic acquisition,” Jet supplied.

Jin giggled. “That’s adorable.”

Zuko groaned. “Stop calling it adorable.”

Jet nodded at Jin, deadpan. “He hates that word.”

Jin’s grin grew sharper. “Adorable.”

Zuko glared. “Jin.”

Jet continued, “Anyway. One morning the head cook caught him.”

Jin leaned in further. “What happened?”

Jet shrugged. “Zuko tried to look intimidating.”

Zuko snapped, “I was intimidating.”

Jet’s eyes flicked to him, unimpressed. “You were twelve. You looked like an angry duck.”

Jin lost it—laughing so hard she bent over the table. “An angry duck?!”

Zuko’s cheeks burned. “That’s not—”

Jet went on mercilessly, “So the cook says, ‘Young master, are you threatening me with your—’” He made a small, stiff gesture with his hands. “—duck face?”

Jin was wheezing now, tears in her eyes. “Oh my gosh.”

Zuko stared at the table, mortified, then—despite himself—his mouth twitched. The image was stupid. Ridiculous.

Jet watched that twitch like he’d been waiting for it.

“Then,” Jet finished, “Zuko panicked, dropped the bun, and ran. But he ran into a pillar.”

Jin choked on a laugh. “No!”

Zuko protested weakly, “I did not—”

Jet leaned forward, eyes bright. “Full speed.”

Jin clapped a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Lee—please tell me that’s not true.”

Zuko tried to hold onto indignation, but it slipped. A laugh bubbled up—small and rough like he hadn’t used those muscles in a while.

He covered it with a cough. Failed. Another short laugh escaped.

Jet’s grin softened—still smug, but warmer.

Jin stared at Zuko like she’d just seen a rare animal do a trick. “You laughed,” she whispered, delighted.

Zuko scowled automatically. “No I didn’t.”

Jin leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “You did.”

Jet nodded, too satisfied. “He did.”

Zuko tried to glare them both into silence—and then Jin giggled again and Jet’s smile widened and Zuko’s own mouth betrayed him once more.

A real laugh this time. Brief, unguarded.

Jin’s expression softened into something warm and almost reverent, like she’d been waiting for proof that the serious boy behind the counter could be happy.

Jet watched Zuko carefully as the laughter faded, like he was filing the moment away.

Then Jet said, innocently, “Want another story?”

Zuko’s laughter choked off. “Absolutely not.”

Jin raised her hand like a student. “Absolutely yes.”

Zuko stared at her, horrified. “You’re enjoying this.”

Jin beamed. “Immensely.”

Jet leaned back, pleased. “All right. Next one’s about the time he tried to—”

Zuko lunged across the table and grabbed Jet’s sleeve. “No.”

Jet laughed—quiet, genuine—while Jin laughed with him.

Zuko held onto Jet’s sleeve for a second longer than necessary, then realized what he was doing and snatched his hand back like the fabric had burned him.

Jet’s eyes flicked to Zuko’s hand, then to his face, something smug and soft crossing his expression.

Jin wiped her eyes. “Okay,” she said, still giggling. “I officially like your friend.”

Zuko bristled instantly. “He’s not—”

Jet cut in smoothly, “I’m not his friend.”

Zuko blinked.

Jet’s gaze slid to him, that familiar glint. “I’m his problem.”

Jin laughed again. “That sounds like a friend.”

Jet shrugged, unapologetic. “Call it what you want.”

Zuko took a sip of tea to hide his face, and for once it wasn’t just to pretend he didn’t care.

He could feel it—the strange looseness in his chest, the tension easing out of his shoulders.

It was ridiculous.

It was dangerous.

And sitting there with steam in the air and Jin’s laughter on one side and Jet’s sharp, relentless attention on the other, Zuko realized he hadn’t felt this… normal in a long time.

Jin stayed until closing like she didn’t even notice the hours slipping by.

The tea shop gradually emptied—regulars drifting out, lanterns outside turning the windows into warm squares of light. Zuko wiped tables and stacked cups with the kind of unnecessary thoroughness that meant he didn’t want the night to end. Jin lingered at the counter, humming softly, watching him like the work itself was entertaining.

Jet stayed too, occupying a chair in the corner like a decorative threat. He looked relaxed in the way a knife looks relaxed on a table—still dangerous, still present.

And Iroh, returning from the back room with the end-of-day calm of a man who’d already decided how the evening would go, took one look at all three of them and smiled like the universe had finally done something right.

“Ah,” he said, delighted. “A full house.”

Zuko groaned. “We’re closing.”

“Yes,” Iroh agreed, entirely unbothered. “And closing is hungry work.”

He disappeared into the kitchen nook and returned with a small tray: three cups of extra tea—sweet chrysanthemum this time—and a plate of snacks that were decidedly not Lower Ring sad: sesame buns, candied ginger, little fried spirals dusted with sugar.

Jin’s eyes widened. “Mr. Mushi, you didn’t have to—”

“Nonsense,” Iroh said, setting the tray down with ceremonial care. “A good cup of tea tastes even better with good company.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “You’re bribing us.”

Iroh beamed. “Yes.”

Zuko muttered, “Uncle—”

Iroh raised a finger. “Also,” he added pleasantly, “I have noticed that you are all sitting and talking like normal human beings.”

Zuko’s ears warmed. “We were not—”

“We were,” Jin said brightly, immediately betraying him.

Jet lifted his cup. “Barely.”

Iroh’s eyes shone. “Still. It is progress.”

Zuko shot him a glare that didn’t stick.

They ate and drank in that soft end-of-night quiet. Jin told a story about someone at her building trying to sell “authentic Earth Kingdom lucky charms” that were clearly painted rocks. Jet kept making dry comments that made Jin laugh. Zuko pretended to be annoyed and then failed at not smiling.

When the last bun was gone and the tea had cooled, Jin finally stood with a reluctant sigh.

“I should go,” she said, tightening her scarf.

Zuko’s stomach did that unpleasant thing again. “I can walk you.”

Jin’s face softened. “You’re still recovering.”

“I’m fine,” Zuko said automatically.

Jet’s brows lifted. “Sure.”

Zuko glared. “Shut up.”

Jin smiled at both of them, then looked back at Zuko. “Just to the corner,” she said gently, like a compromise. “Okay?”

Zuko nodded once. “Okay.”

Iroh waved her out with the warm grandeur of a host dismissing honored guests. “Goodnight, Jin! Come again soon.”

“I will!” Jin promised, then leaned in close to Zuko and kissed him—quick, sweet, familiar now.

Zuko froze for half a heartbeat, then kissed her back, just as quickly, like he was afraid to linger and be seen.

When she pulled away, Jin smiled like she’d stolen the sun.

“Goodnight, Lee,” she whispered.

Zuko’s voice came out low. “Goodnight.”

She turned and slipped out into the lantern-lit street.

Zuko watched her go until she disappeared around the corner.

Then he remembered he was being watched by two people who noticed everything.

He cleared his throat and turned back inside.

Iroh was already collecting cups with suspicious efficiency. “I will lock up,” he announced, far too casually. “You two finish wiping the counter.”

Zuko narrowed his eyes. “Uncle, we already—”

Iroh smiled brightly. “Oh? Then you may finish wiping it again. Goodnight!”

And before Zuko could protest, Iroh swept out the back with the speed of a man who absolutely was not eavesdropping and absolutely would not be returning for at least ten minutes.

The shop fell quiet.

Just Zuko. Jet. The faint smell of sugar and tea in the air.

Zuko turned toward the counter, busying his hands with a rag he didn’t need, because if he looked at Jet right now he might combust.

Jet didn’t speak for a moment.

Then, from behind him, Jet said quietly, “I like her.”

Zuko’s hand paused mid-wipe. “What.”

Jet’s boots crossed the floor—slow, deliberate—until he was close enough that Zuko could feel him behind him, like heat at his back.

“I like Jin,” Jet repeated, voice low. “For you.”

Zuko’s shoulders went tight. “You barely know her.”

Jet gave a small hum. “I know what she does to you.”

Zuko turned, irritation flaring. “She doesn’t ‘do’ anything. I—”

He stopped.

Because Jet was closer than he realized—too close for the small space behind the counter. Zuko’s back bumped the wall, not hard, but enough that it reminded him how trapped the corner was.

Jet stepped in, one arm braced against the wall beside Zuko’s head—not touching him, but boxing him in with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how much space he was taking.

Zuko’s breath caught.

Jet’s gaze held his, sharp and unreadable.

“I saw you laugh today,” Jet said quietly. “Not the little fake one you do when you’re pretending. A real one.”

Zuko’s throat went dry. “So.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “So… she’s good for you.”

Zuko’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with his fever. “Why are you telling me this.”

Jet leaned closer—not enough to touch, but close enough that Zuko could feel the words more than hear them.

“Because you’re going to ruin it,” Jet murmured.

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

Jet’s voice stayed even. “You’re going to decide you don’t deserve her. Or that she’s safer without you. Or that you need to run back to your mission and leave her with nothing but questions.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re going to do something stupid and noble and miserable.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Jet’s gaze flicked—briefly—to Zuko’s lips, then snapped back to his eyes like he hated himself for it.

“I know you,” Jet said.

The words landed heavy.

Zuko’s pulse kicked hard. He forced himself to breathe evenly, forced his voice into a hard edge. “Then get off me.”

Jet didn’t move right away.

His arm stayed braced against the wall, his body close, the air between them charged with everything they refused to name.

Then Jet’s mouth curved, small and dangerous. “Make me.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed—anger and something else threading together. “Jet.”

Jet’s voice softened, just a fraction, and suddenly it wasn’t a challenge. It was honest.

“I like her for you,” Jet repeated, quieter. “Because she makes you look like you might actually stay alive long enough to have a future.”

Zuko’s throat tightened.

He wanted to snap back. He wanted to shove Jet away. He wanted to say it’s none of your business.

Instead, the truth slipped out, rough and low:

“And what if she finds out who I am?”

Jet’s expression flickered—something protective, something fierce.

“Then I’ll handle the fallout,” Jet said immediately, like it was obvious. Like he’d already decided.

Zuko’s eyes widened. “That’s not your—”

“It is,” Jet cut in, still low. “Because you’re mine to guard.”

Zuko’s breath caught at the phrasing, heat rushing up his neck. “You—”

Jet’s gaze sharpened as if he realized what he’d said, but he didn’t take it back. He just stayed there, close and steady, voice quieter now.

“I mean,” Jet corrected, almost reluctantly, “I chose this. You. So if the world turns on you—if she turns on you—” his jaw tightened, “—I’m still here.”

Zuko stared at him, chest tight, fingers curling around the rag like it was something to hold onto.

“Jet…” Zuko whispered, and didn’t know what he meant by it.

Jet’s eyes searched his face. His voice dropped even lower, stripped of teasing.

“Don’t push her away,” Jet said. “Not because you’re scared. Not because you think you have to be alone to be strong.”

Zuko swallowed hard.

His voice came out hoarse. “Get off me.”

Jet held his gaze for one long beat, then he exhaled and stepped back, lowering his arm from the wall.

The air rushed in where he’d been, cold and sudden.

Zuko didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he finally let it out.

Jet turned toward the door, voice returning to something safer. “Finish wiping the counter, boss,” he said lightly.

Zuko’s glare snapped up, grateful for something familiar to be angry at. “Don’t call me—”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “Zuko,” he amended, softer.

He paused at the doorway and glanced back once.

“Seriously,” Jet said, the humor gone. “She’s good.”

Zuko’s throat tightened, and he forced himself to look away like it didn’t matter.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

Jet left the shop quietly.

Zuko stood there with a rag in his hand, heart doing far too much for an ordinary night, and the wall still warm behind him where Jet’s arm had been.

Chapter Text

The market was all noise and color—spice smoke curling from carts, bolts of fabric snapping in the breeze, vendors calling prices like they were singing.

Jin walked like she belonged to every corner of it. She tugged Zuko along by his sleeve, stopping to point at carvings, laugh at a street performer, and insist he try a steamed bun “because you look like you forgot food can be good.”

Zuko tried to play the part. He really did.

He held her bag when she leaned over a jewelry tray. He made the right noises when she showed him a painted fan. He even—once—let her feed him a bite of candied plum without immediately scowling.

Jin noticed. Her smile softened, like she was proud of him for something he didn’t know he was doing.

“This is nice,” she said, bumping her shoulder into his. “You’re… actually here.”

Zuko’s throat tightened around a strangely tender feeling. “Yeah.”

They wandered deeper, past a fishmonger and a dumpling stall, and for a while it was easy—just the two of them, the world loud enough to drown out everything else.

Then Jin stopped short and brightened like she’d spotted a friend.

“Oh! Jet!”

Zuko’s head snapped up, irritation flaring on instinct.

Jet stood a few stalls away, half-turned like he’d been about to melt into the crowd. He wore a plain coat, hair tucked back, eyes scanning like the market was a chessboard. When he saw Zuko, something flickered in his expression—an almost-warning, swallowed immediately into neutrality.

“Jin,” Jet said smoothly, polite. “Lee.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “What are you doing here.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “Shopping.”

Jin looked between them, delighted and entirely unaware of the tension she’d just walked into. “You’re coming with us,” she decided.

Jet blinked. “I—”

“You are,” Jin repeated, cheerful and unyielding. “Because Lee needs to loosen up and you’re apparently the only person who can make him laugh without him pretending he didn’t.”

Zuko’s ears went hot. “I don’t—”

Jet’s eyes gleamed. “She’s not wrong.”

Zuko shot him a look that promised consequences.

Jet only looked more entertained.

Jin hooked her arm through Zuko’s sleeve again, then—before Zuko could protest—grabbed Jet’s sleeve too, like she’d decided they were a trio now and the city could deal with it.

“There,” Jin said, satisfied. “Perfect. Now it’s impossible for either of you to wander off and brood.”

Zuko muttered, “I don’t brood.”

Jet said, “He broods.”

Jin laughed. “See? Teamwork.”

They moved through the stalls together, and the strangest thing happened: it wasn’t terrible.

Jet kept his distance just enough to be “third wheel” instead of intrusion, but he spoke when Jin spoke, answered her questions, made dry little comments that made her laugh. He charmed her the way he could charm anyone—easy, practiced, just sincere enough to feel real.

And it did, in fact, make Zuko jealous.

Not because he wanted Jin to like him more than Jet. Jin already did. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was the way Jet could be warm when he chose to be—how he could slide into normal human conversation like it didn’t cost him anything, while Zuko had to force every word past the armor in his throat.

At a fruit stand, Jin held up two oranges. “Which one looks better?”

Zuko stared at them like they were identical weapons. “They’re oranges.”

Jet took one, rolled it in his palm thoughtfully. “This one. Slightly heavier. Less soft spots.”

Jin’s eyes widened. “How did you—”

Jet shrugged. “Observation.”

Jin looked impressed. “You’re good at this.”

Jet’s gaze flicked to Zuko—quick, pointed—like he was saying see? I can be useful without flirting. You’re welcome.

Zuko glared, then took the other orange and muttered, “That one’s fine too.”

Jin smiled at him like she’d won something anyway.

They stopped at a stall selling paper lantern charms—tiny folded animals with painted eyes.

Jin picked up a turtle-duck and held it near Zuko’s face. “This is you.”

Zuko stared. “That’s insulting.”

Jin grinned. “No, it’s sturdy and grumpy-looking.”

Jet leaned in, smiling. “Accurate.”

Zuko’s scar twitched. “I’m going to throw you into a canal.”

Jin laughed and bought the turtle-duck charm anyway, tying it to her wrist. “Now you’re coming home with me,” she told it solemnly.

Zuko was mid-scowl when a voice carried across the market—bright, unmistakable, threaded with that specific kind of earnest panic.

“Excuse me! Have you seen a sky bison? He’s really big and fluffy and—”

Zuko went cold.

His entire body locked, like someone had poured ice down his spine. The noise of the market dimmed. The colors dulled. All he heard was that voice and the word bison.

Aang.

Jin kept talking, unaware for a second. “Lee? You okay?”

Zuko’s eyes snapped past her shoulder.

Across the market, through moving bodies and hanging cloth, he saw a flash of orange and yellow. A bald head. A small figure weaving between people with frantic, hopeful energy.

And with him—Katara’s blue. Sokka’s familiar posture. Toph’s steady stride.

Jet’s head turned too, a fraction slower than Zuko’s but just as sharp.

Their eyes met for a split second.

Jet’s expression shifted—not surprise, not fear. Calculation.

They’re here. Too close. Now.

Zuko’s breathing went shallow. His scar tingled like it knew. His hands clenched at his sides, ready to run or fight and not knowing which.

Jin’s voice came softer, worried. “Lee?”

Zuko forced himself to blink, to pull the world back into focus. Jin was looking at him like she could feel the sudden change in the air around him.

“I—” Zuko started, then swallowed hard. “We have to go.”

Jin blinked. “What? Why?”

Zuko’s voice came out tight. “Now.”

Jet stepped half a pace closer, low enough that only Zuko could hear. “Don’t look at them,” he murmured. “Move with the crowd.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “I know.”

Jin looked between them, confused. “Is something wrong?”

Zuko forced his voice into something that could pass for normal. “Uncle’s going to need help at the shop,” he said, too fast.

Jin’s brows knit. “But we—”

“Jin,” Zuko said, and the edge in his voice wasn’t anger—it was fear he couldn’t hide. “Please.”

That stopped her.

Her expression softened, concern overtaking confusion. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay. We can go.”

Zuko immediately guided her away, steering them down a side lane between stalls. He kept his head down, the crowd swallowing them.

Behind them, Jet didn’t follow right away.

Jin glanced back. “Jet?”

Jet paused, eyes flicking toward the main market again. His posture had changed—tension sliding back into him like a blade returning to its sheath.

“I’ll catch up,” Jet said smoothly.

Jin hesitated, then nodded, still a little bewildered. “Okay… don’t get lost.”

Jet offered her an easy smile. “I won’t.”

Zuko didn’t look back. If he did, he knew he’d see Aang. He knew he’d react. He knew the whole fragile “Lee” act would shatter in the middle of the market.

He walked Jin to her corner too quickly, barely hearing her gentle questions. He managed a stiff goodnight and a promise he didn’t deserve.

Then he turned and headed back toward the tea shop alone, heart hammering like it was trying to warn him out of his own skin.

Jet rejoined the Gaang like he’d never left.

Aang was halfway up a vendor’s stall, peering at a notice board with desperate hope.

Katara stood close, protective and tense. Sokka argued with someone who claimed to have seen “a giant fuzzy cow.” Toph stood with her hands on her hips, unimpressed by everyone.

Jet slipped into their orbit and said, calm, “You’re drawing attention.”

Katara’s eyes narrowed automatically. “And you’re suddenly back.”

Jet met her gaze evenly. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

Toph’s head tilted. “He’s… weirdly calm,” she muttered. “Like he knows something.”

Jet kept his face neutral.

Sokka snapped, “Do you?”

Jet shrugged. “Not enough. But this market’s crawling with Dai Li eyes. We should move.”

Aang’s voice cracked. “But Appa could be here!”

Jet’s tone softened slightly—not fake, not syrupy. “Then we search smarter,” he said. “Quietly.”

Katara studied him for a long beat, then gave a short, reluctant nod. “Fine. Lead us to a place we can talk.”

Jet did.

And from the shadow of a roofline above a side street, Zuko watched.

He watched Jet walk with them, accepted—still not fully trusted, but included. He watched Aang’s bright, desperate face. Katara’s sharp vigilance. Sokka’s suspicion. Toph’s steady certainty.

He watched them disappear into the maze of Ba Sing Se together.

And Zuko’s chest tightened with something that felt like too many things at once:

Relief, because Jin hadn’t seen.

Fear, because the Avatar was closer than ever.

And a sharp, sour jealousy—not of Jin this time, but of the way Jet could stand beside them openly… while Zuko had to hide and pretend he was someone else just to breathe.

He stayed on that roof until the street below emptied, listening to the market fade into evening.

Then he slipped down into the Lower Ring shadows and went back to the tea shop—back to warmth, back to lies, back to the thin thread of life he was trying not to break with his own hands.

Jet came back when the city was in that thin, gray hour where even the Dai Li seemed to blink slower.

The door latch clicked softly. Jet slipped in sideways, already braced for impact—ducking his head in case Zuko had chosen tonight to throw something.

No fire. No shouting.

Just Zuko at the table, sitting hunched over an untouched cup of tea gone cold, coat still on, hair loose around his face. Candle burned low beside him.

Iroh’s form was on the mat in the corner, turned toward the wall, breathing slow and even.

Jet closed the door, quiet. “You’re up.”

Zuko didn’t look at him at first. “Obviously.”

Jet took one step closer, reading the air. Tight. Stale. Like the room itself had been holding its breath for a while.

“How was your date?” Jet asked lightly, defaulting to casual.

Zuko’s fingers tightened around the cup. “It wasn’t a date,” he snapped. “And I cut it short.”

Jet’s brows lifted. “Heard.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Of course you did.”

They stood in silence for a beat, the distance between them thick with things unsaid.

Jet shifted his weight, preparing to slide back toward the window and his usual post.

Zuko’s voice cut through the quiet, low and flat.

“I’m tired of this.”

Jet paused. “Of what.”

Zuko looked up then, eyes hard and bright in the candlelight. “Of this,” he said, flicking his hand in a sharp little gesture that somehow encompassed the whole room. “Of pretending I’m some… slum child.”

Jet stilled.

Zuko pushed back from the table, standing, pacing in the short stretch of floor like it was a much bigger room. “I’m sick of cramped walls and cheap blankets and making tea for people who don’t even look at me.” His voice roughened. “I’m sick of hiding. Of lying about my name. Of pretending I’m grateful for scraps.”

Jet watched him, face carefully neutral.

Behind them, Iroh’s breathing hitched for the briefest moment, then smoothed out again. He stayed “asleep.”

Zuko’s hands curled at his sides. “I’m the crown prince of the Fire Nation,” he hissed, like saying it out loud hurt. “I’m not supposed to be… this.”

Jet kept his voice level. “You’re alive.”

Zuko’s head snapped toward him. “That’s not enough.”

“Sometimes it has to be,” Jet said quietly.

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “I want my birthright.”

The words landed heavy, like something he’d been swallowing for weeks.

He didn’t stop now that they were out.

“I want what’s mine,” Zuko said, pacing again, chest tight. “My throne. My father’s respect. My place. Not this—this half-life in a city that pretends there’s no war while my country—” he cut himself off, teeth grinding.

Jet’s training flared like a habit stamped into bone.

He straightened without thinking, shoulders back, feet planted. The posture he’d used in palace halls when Zuko was younger and demanding, furious, hurting.

Even his voice shifted—deeper, steadier. “You want to go back,” Jet said.

Zuko looked at him like he’d been accused. “I want what I was born for.”

Jet held his gaze. “Then say it.”

Zuko’s throat worked. He spat the words like a challenge. “I want the throne.”

The room went weirdly quiet.

Iroh’s eyes opened a sliver on the mat, watching the shapes of his nephew and his nephew’s shadow against the wall.

Jet stepped forward, just once.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t soften it. He didn’t say your father doesn’t deserve you or the throne has teeth—all the things he sometimes thought and rarely dared to voice.

Because palace training said: when the prince sets his eyes on something, your doubts are your own. Your job is to keep him alive long enough to choose again.

Jet bowed his head, just a fraction. Enough to be deliberate.

“If that’s what you want,” he said quietly, “then that’s the path.”

Zuko blinked, thrown. “You’re just—agreeing.”

Jet’s eyes flicked up. “It’s not my place to deny your claim.”

Zuko’s anger faltered into something more vulnerable. “Everyone else does.”

Jet’s jaw tightened. “I’m not everyone else.”

He took another step, closing the distance until he was in front of Zuko, close but not crowding.

“You’re the rightful heir,” Jet said, voice low and formal now, each word precise. “Whether you’re in a palace or a slum, that doesn’t change. They can exile you. Scar you. Bury you in cities that don’t say the word ‘war.’ But it doesn’t change who you are.”

Zuko’s breath caught. The righteousness in Jet’s tone hit some old, deep part of him—the part that had believed, as a child, that the world had rules and one of them was you matter because of your name.

“I shouldn’t be serving tea to peasants,” Zuko muttered, heat rising again. “I shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor. I shouldn’t—”

Jet cut in, not unkind. “You also shouldn’t have had to beg for your father’s love.”

Zuko flinched.

Jet held up a hand slightly, backing off that edge. “I’m not mocking you. I’m saying… nothing about what ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t’ be has been right for a long time.”

Zuko looked away, jaw tight.

Jet watched him for another heartbeat, then said, steady as oathsteel, “Wherever you end up—throne room, ship deck, tea shop—I’m there.”

Zuko’s eyes snapped back. “You can’t know that.”

Jet gave a small, humorless huff. “I decided that a long time ago.”

He straightened fully now, sliding back into that old stance he’d taken outside Zuko’s study door, outside his training hall, outside whatever room he’d been in: shoulders square, chin slightly dipped, hands loosely at his sides.

Not a servant’s pose.

A bodyguard’s.

“You’re my charge,” Jet said. “You were when you were a prince in red and gold. You were when you were a scarred exile on a rust-bucket ship. You are now, in this city that wants to swallow you whole.” His voice softened, but the words didn’t. “You want the throne? I’ll get you as close to it as humanly possible.”

Zuko stared at him like he’d been punched.

Jet didn’t look away.

“If you stay here and pour tea for the rest of your life,” Jet went on, “I’ll stand at the door and watch your back and threaten any drunk who looks at you wrong.”

Zuko’s lip curled, half offended, half something else. “I don’t need—”

“If you burn this life down and march back to the Fire Nation to take what’s yours,” Jet said, overriding him gently, “I’ll walk behind you in whatever armor I can find and stab anyone who thinks they can put a knife in you first.”

His mouth twitched. 

On the mat, Iroh’s fingers curled slowly into his blanket.

Zuko’s voice came out rough. “You’d go back. To the Fire Nation.”

Jet’s jaw flexed. His eyes flicked briefly to the side—toward memories he didn’t let loose often: burning forests, refugees, the smell of char.

Then he looked back at Zuko and nodded once.

“I go where you go,” he said simply.

Zuko swallowed hard. “Even if I’m wrong.”

Jet stepped closer, close enough now that Zuko could smell smoke and street-dust and the faint scent of the cheap soap they both pretended not to share.

“Especially if you’re wrong,” Jet said quietly. “That’s when you need someone most.”

Zuko’s throat burned.

He hated how much he wanted to believe that. How much some ragged, lonely part of him clung to it like a lifeline.

He tried to sneer. “What if I end up… nothing. No prince. No throne. Just… Lee. Forever.”

Jet’s eyes softened in a way Zuko didn’t have defenses for.

“Then I’ll serve tea with you,” Jet said. “And I’ll still call you Zuko.”

For a second, the world shrank to just that: Jet in front of him, close and unwavering. The candlelight painting his cheekbones, the scar on his own eyebrow catching shadow. The promise hanging in the air between them, heavier than any oath spoken in a throne room.

Zuko’s breath hitched. “You’re an idiot.”

Jet’s mouth curved, quiet. “Probably.”

Zuko didn’t move away.

Behind them, Iroh shut his eyes fully, exhaling through his nose—pain and pride tangled together. His dream of a quiet tea life slipping further out of reach with every word; his love for his nephew making it impossible to resent the boy for wanting what had always been held just out of his grasp.

Jet dropped his voice even lower, for Zuko alone. “You can want the throne,” he said. “You can want normal. You can want both and not know how to choose. I’m not going to punish you for it.”

Zuko’s fingers twitched at his sides, wanting something to hold and not knowing what. “Then what are you going to do.”

Jet’s smile faded into something steady and serious.

“Stand,” Jet said. “Between you and whatever’s coming. Same as always.”

Zuko stared at him, heart pounding, anger shifting into something much more dangerous.

He didn’t say thank you—he wasn’t there yet.

He just breathed out, shaky, and muttered, “Don’t call them peasants when Uncle’s listening.”

Jet’s eyes flicked toward the mat, then back, a glint of amusement returning. “Noted.”

From the corner, Iroh said, very dryly, “It is good to know I am invisible when you have… dramatic conversations.”

Zuko jumped. “Uncle!”

Jet straightened like a caught soldier. “General—I mean—sir—I—”

Iroh rolled over, looking at them with tired, fond eyes. “Mm. I heard nothing,” he lied gently. “Except that my nephew is still very much himself… and that his bodyguard remains most inconveniently loyal.”

Jet flushed, looking away.

Zuko scowled, embarrassed. “We weren’t—”

Iroh raised a hand. “I will make more tea,” he said simply, pushing himself up with a small grunt. “The world can be decided on an empty stomach tomorrow. For tonight…” His gaze softened. “For tonight, it is enough that you are here. Both of you.”

Zuko’s shoulders sagged, some of the fight leaving him.

Jet glanced at him, then—without ceremony—bumped Zuko’s shoulder with his own, a brief, grounding touch.

Zuko didn’t move away.

The future—the throne, the tea shop, the Avatar—loomed like a storm on the horizon.

But for one small moment, in a cramped Lower Ring apartment that smelled like smoke and jook and oversteeped tea, Zuko was a prince again, and he was also just a boy in exile, and Jet was still there no matter which life he chose next.

Sleep took Zuko in pieces.

Not the deep, heavy sleep of fever—just the thin kind that let the world seep back in around the edges. The apartment noises faded: Iroh’s kettle settling, Jet’s quiet shift by the window, distant street sounds muffled by the walls.

Then the dark slid sideways.

And Zuko was somewhere else.

The air was warmer. Cleaner. It smelled like polished wood and incense and smoke that didn’t belong to a cookfire. His feet were bare on cool stone.

The palace.

He was smaller—he realized it the moment he looked down at his hands. No scar. Fingers slender, nails clean. A child’s hands, trying very hard to be a prince’s.

The corridor stretched long and bright, all red lacquer and gold trim. Servants moved like ghosts along the edges, heads bowed, eyes lowered. Everything was quiet in the way it only ever was when everyone was afraid to make a sound.

Zuko’s stomach knotted with an old, familiar tension.

He heard voices at the end of the hall.

Iroh’s laugh—warm, booming, impossible to miss. It filled the corridor like sunlight trying to push back shadow.

Zuko’s feet moved before he decided to. He padded forward, heart thumping, drawn by that sound.

Around the corner, the training room doors were open.

Inside, Iroh stood in the center of the polished floor, hands behind his back, dressed in court robes instead of armor. His expression was soft, amused, watching someone in front of him with that same patient attention he used when explaining tea leaves.

In front of him was a boy.

Not much older than Zuko—maybe a few years. Lean. Alert. Hair tied back. Eyes sharp as if they’d learned to survive by counting exits and reading faces. He wore plain clothes that didn’t belong in the palace: earth-toned fabric, sturdy boots, a belt that sat too ready at his waist. He held himself very still, like any movement might be a mistake.

Zuko paused at the doorway.

He didn’t know the boy.

And that, in the palace, was strange.

Iroh turned and spotted Zuko immediately. “Ah! There you are, nephew.”

Zuko stiffened automatically at the warmth of the greeting, then forced himself forward with the careful gait of a child trying to look older.

“Uncle,” he said. His voice in the dream was higher, but the tightness was the same.

Iroh’s smile widened. “Come. I have someone I want you to meet.”

Zuko’s eyes flicked to the boy again. The boy’s gaze tracked him—fast, assessing—and then dropped respectfully to the floor.

That gesture should’ve made Zuko feel powerful.

Instead it made him uncomfortable, like he’d been handed something fragile and told not to break it.

Iroh rested a hand on Zuko’s shoulder—a steady, grounding weight.

“This,” Iroh said, “is Jet.”

At the name, the boy dipped his head a fraction deeper. “Prince Zuko.”

The words were formal, perfect, but there was something underneath them—tight as a drawn cord. A controlled tension like the boy didn’t trust the room, didn’t trust the title, didn’t trust anything.

Zuko frowned. “Why is he here?”

Iroh chuckled softly. “Direct as always.”

The boy—Jet—didn’t react to the bluntness. His face stayed neutral, but his eyes flicked up briefly, meeting Zuko’s for half a heartbeat before lowering again.

Zuko didn’t know why that annoyed him. He just knew it did.

Iroh guided Zuko forward. “Jet has been… recommended,” he said carefully, like the word had sharp edges. “He is quick. Quiet. Observant.”

Zuko’s chin lifted. “So he’s a servant.”

Jet’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptible.

Iroh’s hand squeezed Zuko’s shoulder—gentle reprimand. “Not a servant,” Iroh corrected. “A guard.”

Zuko blinked. “We already have guards.”

“We have many guards,” Iroh agreed. “And yet I would like you to have one you can rely on.”

Zuko’s stomach twisted with something complicated—pleasure, suspicion, fear.

“Why,” he demanded, because that was the only way he knew how to ask if someone cared.

Iroh’s eyes softened. “Because you are my nephew,” he said simply. “And you will not always be in rooms where everyone wishes you well.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. He pretended it didn’t.

He looked at Jet again, taking him in: the plain clothes, the careful stance, the way his hands stayed relaxed but ready.

“Can you fight?” Zuko asked.

Jet’s eyes lifted. This time he didn’t look away.

“Yes, Prince Zuko,” Jet said.

Zuko narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “Prove it.”

Iroh’s brows lifted. “Zuko—”

But Jet moved before Iroh could finish.

Not toward Zuko. Away.

He stepped into the training floor and turned, squaring his shoulders—not aggressive, not showy. Just… prepared.

Zuko’s heart kicked. He hadn’t expected Jet to actually accept the challenge.

Iroh sighed like he’d seen this story before. “Very well,” he murmured, though his voice was fond. “A short demonstration. Nothing that breaks.”

Zuko strode onto the floor, fists up the way he’d been taught. He threw the first punch too hard, too fast, with all the frustration he couldn’t aim at anyone else.

Jet didn’t flinch.

He shifted, smooth and minimal, letting Zuko’s fist pass air. His hand caught Zuko’s wrist—not painfully, just stopping it. A gentle redirection. A lesson.

Zuko’s eyes widened in offended surprise.

He yanked back and swung again—angrier this time.

Jet stepped in, pivoted, and Zuko found himself off-balance, his own momentum carrying him forward until he stumbled and had to catch himself with a palm against the floor.

Humiliation burned hot.

Zuko whipped around, breath sharp. “Again!”

Jet waited.

Zuko lunged, trying to be smarter. Jet adjusted, always half a second ahead, never striking Zuko, only blocking, redirecting, letting Zuko exhaust himself against empty air and steady hands.

It was infuriating.

It was—Zuko realized with a sudden flare of fear—safe.

Jet could have hurt him.

He didn’t.

When Zuko finally stopped, panting, cheeks hot, Jet stepped back and bowed his head once, respectful.

“I will not harm you,” Jet said quietly.

Zuko blinked. “I didn’t ask.”

Jet’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, quickly smothered. “No. But you wondered.”

Zuko’s face heated again, because the boy was right.

Iroh stepped forward and clapped once, pleased. “Good,” he said. “Very good.”

Zuko glared at Jet, then at Iroh. “Why him.”

Iroh’s expression softened. “Because he will tell you the truth when others flatter. Because he will stand between you and danger.” A pause. “Because he understands what it means to lose a home.”

Zuko’s brows knit. “What does that mean.”

Jet’s gaze flicked away.

Iroh didn’t press it. “It means he has known fear,” Iroh said gently. “And he has chosen discipline instead of letting it consume him.”

Zuko stared at Jet, suddenly seeing something in his posture he hadn’t noticed before—not just readiness, but restraint.

A boy holding himself together by force.

Like Zuko did.

Jet’s eyes lifted again, meeting Zuko’s, and for the first time there was something like honesty in them—guarded, but real.

“I will protect you,” Jet said, voice formal as a vow. “If you will allow it.”

Zuko’s throat tightened in a way he couldn’t name. He hated needing protection. He hated wanting it.

He forced his chin higher, the only shield he knew. “Fine,” he snapped. “But don’t get in my way.”

Jet bowed his head. “As you wish, Prince Zuko.”

Iroh’s hand returned to Zuko’s shoulder, warm and steady. “Be kind,” he murmured, so low only Zuko could hear.

Zuko didn’t answer.

He just stared at Jet—this new shadow in his life, this quiet presence Iroh was placing beside him like a safeguard.

The palace around them gleamed and glittered.

But in the corner of the training room, a flame lantern flickered, and for a moment Zuko saw the future in its shifting light:

A world that would burn him.

A world he would burn back.

And through it, somehow, always—Jet, standing close, eyes sharp, hands steady, waiting for Zuko to decide what he would become.

The dream blurred at the edges, the incense smell turning to rice porridge and candle smoke—

And Zuko’s younger self, barefoot on cold stone, reached out without quite meaning to and lightly caught Jet’s sleeve.

Just a second. A child’s reflex.

Jet went very still, then looked down at Zuko’s hand like it was something sacred and dangerous.

Zuko let go immediately, embarrassed.

But the warmth of that brief contact lingered as the palace dissolved into darkness—following him back toward morning, toward the life he was trying to build, and the shadow who had always been there from the beginning.

Chapter Text

The next day the air was sharp and cold in that way Ba Sing Se got when the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to snow.

Zuko and Jet were on the roof.

Technically they weren’t supposed to be—“too dangerous,” Iroh had said once, staring pointedly at the crumbling edge—but that had just meant obviously the best place to go for both of them.

Zuko sat with his back against a brick chimney, boots stretched out, one knee bent. Jet sat a little to the side, one leg dangling over the edge like he’d made peace with gravity a long time ago.

They shared a cigarette between them, passing it back and forth.

Zuko took a drag, exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl up into the pale sky.

“It still smells wrong,” he muttered. “Not like home.”

Jet huffed softly. “Home is burning coal and salty air and fear,” he said. “I’ll take ‘wrong.’”

Zuko’s mouth twitched. “You’re melodramatic.”

“Says the exiled crown prince,” Jet shot back. “Who mutters about destiny at least twice a week.”

Zuko glared half-heartedly, then held the cigarette out. Jet took it, fingers brushing Zuko’s for a second longer than necessary before he leaned back and took his own pull.

They sat in silence for a moment, the city spread below them: uneven rooftops, laundry lines, thin trails of smoke from cooking fires. A far cry from the clean geometry of palace courtyards.

Zuko’s eyes narrowed against the wind. “Do you remember the first time we stole red bean buns?”

Jet snorted. “’We’? That was you.”

Zuko bristled. “You were there.”

“I was there to stop you,” Jet said. “Badly.”

Zuko looked away, but there was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t stop me.”

“I was new,” Jet said dryly. “They told me ‘Guard the prince,’ not ‘Guard the prince from dough-based disasters.’”

The memory slipped in between breaths—warm kitchen air, the clatter of pans, the smell of sweet bean paste and yeast, the way the servants went stiff when Zuko walked in, like his presence was a test they might fail.

“You looked terrified,” Zuko said. “Back then.”

Jet rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “I was. New uniform. New name. New… everything.”

He exhaled. Smoke drifted, then disappeared.

“They taught us the rules before they ever let us see you,” Jet said, voice quieter now. “Who you bow to. How deep. When to speak. When not to. How not to look afraid even when you’re waiting to see if the Fire Lord notices you breathing wrong.”

Zuko swallowed. “They did that for palace guards too.”

Jet’s jaw flexed. “Yeah. Difference is you were always at the center of it. We were… decor.”

Zuko stared at him. “Decor doesn’t get branded if they step wrong.”

Jet’s gaze flicked to Zuko’s scar—quick, pained—and away again. “No,” he said. “You got the worst of it.”

The wind tugged at their hair. Below, someone shouted about fresh cabbages.

Zuko shifted, pulling his coat tighter. “The buns,” he said, like he needed to drag them both somewhere else. “Tell it right.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “Fine.”

He settled back, free hand braced on the rooftop tile. “You were twelve. I’d been officially assigned to you for… what? A week?”

“Three days,” Zuko muttered.

Jet blinked. “Seriously?”

“You were bad at sneaking,” Zuko said, almost smug. “You tripped over that umbrella stand outside my room.”

Jet groaned. “I had new boots.”

“You still trip over things,” Zuko added.

Jet shot him a look. “Do you want the story or…?”

Zuko smirked. “Story.”

Jet rolled his eyes and went on. “You’d been up before dawn, doing drills in the courtyard because Agni forbid you sleep like a normal child. I was supposed to be ten paces behind you at all times, ‘seen but not heard.’” He rolled the phrase in his mouth like it tasted bad. “You finished your forms, almost passed out, and then just… marched into the kitchens.”

Zuko remembered the heat, the clang of ladles, the way conversation had died.

“Everyone stared,” Zuko said.

“They were terrified,” Jet added. “They weren’t supposed to have you in there. Wrong entrance, wrong time, wrong clothes. You walked in looking like a half-drowned turtle-duck and said—” his mouth quirked, “‘I need food.’”

Zuko’s ears warmed. “I was hungry.”

Jet laughed quietly. “You were honest. That was the problem.”

He took another drag, exhaled toward the sky. “The head cook tried to shoo you out without technically shooing you out, because heir to the throne, etc. And you—” Jet’s eyes crinkled, “—you didn’t even notice. You just saw the tray of buns cooling.”

“I wasn’t going to wait for breakfast,” Zuko said, remembering the ache in his arms, the emptiness in his stomach. “No one told me I couldn’t take one.”

Jet’s gaze softened. “You reached for one,” he said, “and every servant in the room held their breath like lightning was about to hit.”

Zuko frowned. “You grabbed me.”

Jet nodded. “Yeah. Wrist. Hard. That was the first time I thought you might actually try to burn me.”

Zuko’s scar twitched. “I didn’t.”

“You looked at me like you wanted to,” Jet said, but there was no accusation in it now. “And then you did something nobody warned me about.”

Zuko arched a brow. “What.”

“You shared,” Jet said.

The word hung there between them.

“I remember that,” Zuko admitted. “You looked hungry too.”

Jet let out a quiet breath of laughter. “I was starving. They’d been drilling us through the night on command chains and emergency evacuations and the proper depth of bow depending on which aunt walked by.” His mouth twisted. “We weren’t supposed to ‘take advantage of our posting.’”

“The cooks fed the guards all the time,” Zuko said, frowning.

Jet shrugged one shoulder. “Not the strays.”

Zuko looked over at him. “You weren’t a stray.”

Jet didn’t answer that. He just went on. “You ripped the bun in half and shoved it at me like you were… offended on my behalf. ‘You’re guarding me,’ you said. ‘You should eat too.’”

Zuko remembered the sticky warmth of bean paste on his fingers, the weird, shocked look on Jet’s face.

“You said no,” Zuko muttered.

“I said I wasn’t allowed,” Jet corrected. “You said, ‘I order you to.’”

Zuko winced. “That sounds like me.”

“It was absolutely you,” Jet said, amused. “So I saluted like an idiot and ate it, because what was I gonna do, argue with the prince in front of the kitchen staff?”

Zuko stared at the tiles. “You didn’t look happy.”

Jet was quiet for a beat. “Wasn’t used to being handed food. Not since… before.”

Zuko swallowed, guilt prickling. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Jet said simply. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

He looked back at Zuko, eyes softer. “But that was the first moment I believed you might be… different. You didn’t just take. You shared. That’s… not standard royal behavior.”

Zuko huffed. “Mai would’ve stolen three buns and let them yell at the staff.”

Jet snorted. “And Azula?”

Zuko grimaced. “She’d have the cook fired for putting them where I could see them. Then eaten one in front of everyone.”

“Charming family,” Jet said.

Zuko made a face.

They passed the cigarette again.

The smoke sat between them like a fourth presence—palace ghosts and old habits.

Zuko turned the filter between his fingers. “Do you miss it?”

Jet tilted his head. “The palace or the buns.”

“Either.”

Jet thought for a moment. “I miss hot water on demand,” he admitted. “And not worrying about the roof caving in.”

Zuko snorted. “You slept on a straw mat on my floor.”

“In a room that didn’t leak,” Jet pointed out. “Even the servants had better roofs than here.”

Zuko tipped his head back, looking up at the washed-out sky. “I miss… knowing what each room meant,” he said slowly. “Hall of Judgment. West balcony. War room. Everything had a name and a purpose. If you stood in the wrong place, someone told you.”

Jet’s gaze slid sideways. “Yeah,” he said. “They told you.”

Zuko glanced over. Jet’s expression was distant, watching a memory only he could see.

“Hierarchy,” Jet went on. “You had the top rung. I was somewhere… under the staircase.”

“You were my guard,” Zuko said. “That mattered.”

Jet gave a small, crooked smile. “To you. To the palace, I was a knife they could misplace.”

Zuko’s chest tightened. “I didn’t know they… thought like that.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Jet said. “That’s how it works.”

Zuko leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I hated the rules,” he muttered. “All the bowing. All the ‘yes, Father, no, Father, of course, Father.’” His hand flexed unconsciously. “Speak only when spoken to. Don’t question. Don’t cry.”

Jet’s jaw clenched. “Don’t flinch,” he added quietly. “Even when you want to.”

Zuko looked at him.

Jet didn’t look away this time. “They trained us too,” he said. “Never turn your back on royalty. Never meet the Fire Lord’s eyes unless you’re summoned. If the prince is wrong, he is still right. If the Fire Lord is wrong…” He gave a humorless huff. “He’s never wrong.”

Zuko felt something ugly twist in his gut. “He was wrong. A lot.”

Jet nodded. “Yeah. We didn’t get to say that out loud.”

“You’re saying it now,” Zuko said, almost a challenge.

Jet smiled, small and sharp. “We’re on a roof in Ba Sing Se. If Ozai hears me from here, he deserves the throne.”

Zuko’s laugh came out rough, surprised.

Jet took the last drag, then pressed the butt out on a broken tile and set it aside.

“Thing about hierarchy,” Jet said, voice softening, “is it keeps everyone in their place. Even when the place hurts.”

Zuko stared down at his hands. “It kept me at the top while my father held me under his heel.”

“And me at the bottom, trained to hold you up,” Jet said. “No questions asked.”

Zuko looked over sharply. “You questioned.”

Jet’s eyes met his, steady. “In my head,” he said. “Never out loud.”

A beat.

Then Zuko asked, quietly, “Why not?”

Jet’s answer came without hesitation.

“Because you were the only one higher up the chain who ever looked at me like a person and not a tool,” he said. “Because you shared a bun with me instead of throwing it at the floor when you were angry.” His mouth twitched. “Because when I messed up, you got mad, but you never called for someone to punish me for you.”

Zuko swallowed, throat tight.

He hadn’t known any of that mattered.

Jet nudged his boot lightly with his own. “You were a brat,” he added, to soften it. “But you were my brat.”

Zuko’s ears went hot. “Don’t say it like that.”

Jet’s grin flashed. “Say what.”

Zuko scowled. “My anything.”

Jet’s eyes glinted. “Too late. Palace training’s hard to break.”

Zuko looked away before Jet could see the way his chest did that stupid clench, like something fitting into a place it hadn’t known it needed.

“I hated the formality,” Zuko said, more to the rooftops than to Jet. “But it’s… in my bones. Sometimes I hear myself talk to you like I’m… like I’m him.”

“Ozai?” Jet asked.

Zuko nodded once, jaw tight.

Jet watched him for a long moment.

Then he said, carefully, “You’re not him.”

“You don’t know that,” Zuko muttered.

Jet leaned in, just a little. “I do,” he said. “He would never apologize for yelling when he was sick. He would never worry about whether his guard had enough to eat. He would never sit on a freezing roof sharing a cheap cigarette with someone ‘beneath’ him.”

Zuko’s throat worked. He didn’t trust his voice, so he didn’t answer.

Jet went on, softer. “You sound formal when you’re scared,” he said. “That’s it. The rest… that’s just you trying to hold yourself together.”

Zuko stared at the horizon. The walls of Ba Sing Se cut the world in half.

“Do you miss calling me ‘Prince Zuko’?” he asked suddenly, trying to turn it into a joke.

Jet considered. “Sometimes.”

Zuko blinked, startled. “Why?”

Jet’s mouth curved. “Because it was easier,” he said honestly. “There were rules. Easy boxes. You were ‘Prince.’ I was ‘Guard.’ I knew where to stand.”

“And now?” Zuko asked.

Jet’s gaze slid sideways, taking him in: the scuffed boots, the worn coat, the face that was both prince and refugee.

“Now you’re Zuko,” Jet said simply. “And I’m still trying to figure out where to stand.”

Zuko’s heart thumped too hard at that.

“Where do you… want to stand?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Jet didn’t look away this time. “Close,” he said.

The word sat between them, warm and dangerous.

Zuko exhaled, long and shaky.

“Okay,” he said, very quietly.

Daylight made the markets feel safer than they were.

Jin walked beside Zuko with her scarf loose and her hair tucked behind her ears, chattering happily about a stall that sold “real Upper Ring silk, I swear,” while Zuko pretended to be unimpressed and failed in the small ways that mattered—staying close when the crowd pressed in, carrying her purchases without complaint, actually answering when she asked what kind of tea he liked.

(He still refused to say “I like jasmine.” He said, “It’s fine,” like it was a threat.)

They turned into a broader lane where vendors had set up awnings of bright cloth. Somewhere a musician played a cheerful, wobbly tune. Children ran between carts.

Jin was mid-sentence—something about wanting to try a fried honey spiral—when Zuko heard it.

A voice, bright as a bell.

“Aang—slow down! You can’t just—”

Katara.

Zuko’s blood went cold so fast it felt like his heart stuttered.

He stopped walking. Jin took two steps before she realized he wasn’t beside her anymore.

“Lee?” she asked, turning back. “What’s wrong?”

Zuko didn’t answer. His eyes had locked onto a small group pushing through the crowd from the opposite direction: Aang in his monk clothes, Sokka at his side with that permanently suspicious squint, Toph walking like she owned the ground, and Katara scanning rooftops even in full daylight.

And with them—

Jet.

Jet moved with them like he belonged there now. He wasn’t smiling, not charming. Just focused. Useful. The kind of “trusted” that came with being kept close.

Their eyes met for the briefest instant across the crowded lane.

Jet’s expression sharpened—warning, calculation, move—

But it was too late.

Aang saw Zuko.

Aang’s face lit with recognition and shock in the same breath. “You—!”

Katara’s head snapped around, eyes narrowing, then widening as the pieces slammed together.

Sokka’s boomerang hand twitched automatically. “Oh you have got to be kidding me.”

Toph froze mid-step, bare feet pressing into stone. Her head tilted like she’d just heard a lie crack in half.

Jin looked between them, confused. “Um—do you… know them?”

Zuko’s chest tightened. The market noise seemed to fall away until all he could hear was the pounding of his own pulse and Aang’s sharp inhale.

Katara stepped forward, fury rising like a wave. “Zuko.”

Jin blinked. “Zuko?”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. The name landed in the open air like a knife hitting wood.

Jin’s eyes widened slowly as the meaning tried to form. “Wait—Lee, what—?”

Zuko didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. If he did, the expression on her face might destroy whatever control he had left.

Katara’s gaze flicked to Jin, then back to Zuko, anger turning colder. “You’re dragging civilians into this now?”

“I’m not dragging her into anything,” Zuko snapped, too fast. “Stay out of it.”

Sokka’s voice shot up. “That’s rich coming from the Fire Nation prince.”

Heads in the market turned. A vendor paused mid-shout. Someone dropped a basket. Murmurs rippled like wind through grass.

Jin’s face drained of color. “Prince…?”

Zuko’s throat went tight. He finally looked at her.

Jin stared at him like she’d never seen him before—hurt and shock warring with disbelief. Her gaze flicked to his scar, then to Katara, then back to him.

“You—” she whispered. “You lied.”

Zuko’s chest clenched so hard it almost hurt to breathe. “Jin—”

Toph’s head angled toward him. “Ohhh,” she said, flat and grimly delighted. “Now it makes sense.”

Katara stepped in front of Aang, protective and furious. Water slid from her skin in a thin ribbon, coiling at her side. “Where’s Appa, Zuko?”

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “I don’t have him.”

Aang’s voice cracked, desperation flaring. “You’re here—so you have to know something—!”

“I don’t,” Zuko snapped, and it was true and not true at the same time.

Jet, standing with the Gaang, looked tense—like he was braced for the plan to shatter. His jaw flexed, eyes flicking between Zuko and Katara like he was reading angles, exits, collateral.

Zuko saw Katara’s fingers twitch.

He saw Sokka’s stance shift, ready.

He saw Aang’s hope curdling into panic.

He saw Jin—right beside him—frozen and exposed in the middle of it.

And something old, hard, and instinctive snapped into place.

Zuko’s voice dropped—command-flat.

“Jet.”

Every head jerked.

Jet’s eyes locked onto Zuko, and for a heartbeat the market became the palace: ranks, duty, a name spoken like a hook.

Zuko didn’t hesitate.

“To my side,” Zuko ordered.

It wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Jet moved instantly—body turning, feet pivoting, leaving the Gaang’s formation without thinking. One step, two—clean, efficient—closing distance to stand slightly behind and to the right of Zuko, exactly where he’d stood in those old hallways.

The crowd gasped.

Katara’s eyes went wide with sheer disbelief. “Jet—what are you doing?”

Sokka’s mouth fell open. “Wait—WHAT?”

Aang stared, stunned. “Jet…?”

Toph’s eyebrows climbed. “Oh. That’s… bad.”

Jet’s posture straightened, shoulders squared, eyes forward. His voice came out smooth and formal as a blade sliding free.

“Yes, my lord.”

The words hit like a slap.

Jin made a small, broken sound. “My…?”

Katara’s face twisted with betrayal. “You’ve been working with him?”

Jet didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at anyone but Zuko. Like the only chain that mattered had just tightened around his throat.

Sokka’s shock flipped into anger in an instant. “I KNEW IT!”

Aang’s eyes filled with hurt and panic. “Jet—why?”

Jet’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed clipped, controlled. “Because it’s my duty.”

Katara’s water rose higher. “Duty to a monster?”

Zuko’s eyes flashed at the word—at the ease of it, at the way she’d say it in front of Jin.

“Enough,” Zuko snarled. “Jin—move.”

Jin didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was still staring at him like he’d turned into a stranger wearing his face.

“Lee…” she whispered, and it wasn’t a name anymore. It was grief.

Zuko’s chest tightened. “Jin, please—”

Katara’s voice cut through, sharp and furious. “Aang, get back!”

Aang hesitated—still staring at Jet like he couldn’t make the betrayal fit the boy he’d known—then Sokka grabbed his sleeve and yanked him behind.

Toph planted her feet. “Well,” she muttered, “this is officially the messiest day we’ve had in a while.”

And then Katara attacked.

Water snapped forward in a whip, fast and precise—aimed for Zuko’s legs to drop him, not kill him.

Jet moved first.

He stepped into the strike and cut it sideways with a sweeping motion of his forearm and coat, redirecting the water arc just enough that it splashed harmlessly across the stones.

Katara’s eyes went incandescent. “JET!”

Zuko’s hands came up, breath sharp—and fire bloomed.

Not a wild blast. A controlled flare that surged forward in a low arc, forcing the Gaang back without torching the stalls.

Heat slapped the air. Vendors shrieked and scattered. Fruit rolled across the ground.

Aang’s eyes widened. “No—stop!”

Sokka threw his boomerang. It spun toward Zuko’s head.

Jet’s hand snapped up—fast as thought—and he caught it by the edge of its curve with a sharp twist, stopping its momentum and tossing it aside with a clatter.

Sokka’s face went red. “HEY! THAT’S MINE!”

Toph stomped, and the stone beneath Zuko’s feet buckled into a low ridge meant to trip him.

Zuko jumped back—barely—and felt the world tilt as the ground tried to throw him.

Jet grabbed his sleeve and yanked him sideways out of the worst of it, voice low. “Left.”

Zuko’s breath hitched, furious. “I know!”

Jet didn’t argue. He just moved with him, body shielding, eyes scanning for openings.

Aang stepped forward, palms up, face pleading. “Zuko, please! We don’t have to fight!”

Zuko’s eyes burned. “You’re in my way.”

Katara surged again, water slashing like knives, forcing Zuko to retreat—forcing him closer to Jin.

No.

Zuko’s stomach dropped.

Jin was right there—stunned, unmoving, in the path of everything.

“Jin!” Zuko barked, panic cutting through his fury. “Move!”

Jin flinched like his voice finally reached her. She stumbled back—but not fast enough.

Another water lash snapped toward Zuko and would have caught Jin’s shoulder as collateral.

Jet stepped in and took it across his own back instead, absorbing the blow with a grunt and a twist that kept it from hitting her.

Jin gasped. “Jet!”

Jet didn’t look at her. His jaw tightened, eyes hard. “Get behind the stall. Now.”

Something in his tone—command, urgency—cut through her shock. Jin stumbled backward into the shadow of a cart, trembling.

Zuko’s chest was tight with rage and fear. “Stop targeting her!” he shouted at Katara.

Katara’s eyes flashed. “Then stop hiding behind civilians!”

“I’M NOT—” Zuko choked on the words, because the truth was: his life had been one long trail of collateral damage.

Toph stomped again, trying to pin Zuko’s feet.

Zuko responded with a sharp burst of fire at the ground—not to burn, but to force heat and steam up, briefly blinding.

“Jet,” Zuko snapped, voice clipped. “We leave. Now.”

Jet didn’t hesitate. “Yes, my lord.”

The words made Katara’s face go even paler with fury.

Zuko launched a final fire burst—high, arcing above heads, not aimed at people, just forcing space—while Jet swept a thrown tray aside and cleared a path through the panicking crowd.

They moved fast, weaving between carts, up a narrow lane.

Aang leapt to follow—air swirling at his feet—but Katara grabbed his sleeve.

“Aang, wait!” she hissed. “He’ll lead us into a trap!”

Aang’s eyes stayed locked on Jet’s back. “Jet—!”

Jet didn’t look back. His hand stayed on Zuko’s sleeve, guiding, guarding.

They reached an alley mouth where rooftops dipped low.

Jet glanced up once and nodded.

Zuko took two steps, planted, and launched himself—hands catching the edge—pulling up with a grunt. Jet followed a half-second later, fluid, practiced.

They disappeared onto the rooftops.

Below, the market was chaos—spilled produce, overturned baskets, frightened shouting.

And Jin stood half-hidden by the stall, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes shining with shock and hurt.

Katara’s gaze landed on her for a fraction of a second—then softened in a grim, furious understanding.

Sokka scooped up his boomerang from the stones, fuming. “Okay. So Jet is officially the worst.”

Toph crossed her arms. “Or the most complicated.”

Aang stared up at the rooftops, face crumpled. “He said… ‘my lord.’”

Katara’s voice was tight. “We trusted him.”

Toph’s expression turned grim. “Yeah. And he made sure I couldn’t tell.”

Aang’s voice went small. “Why would he do that?”

Katara’s jaw clenched. “Because he chose.”

On the roofline, Zuko and Jet stopped only when they were far enough away that the market noise was just a distant smear.

Zuko’s breathing was harsh. His hands trembled with leftover fire.

Jet stood close, shoulder to shoulder, eyes scanning behind them for pursuit.

Zuko’s voice came out low and shaken with rage and something else—something that hurt.

“You said it,” Zuko hissed. “‘My lord.’ In public.”

Jet’s jaw flexed. “You ordered me.”

Zuko spun on him. “Not like that.”

Jet’s gaze didn’t flinch. “That’s how the order lives in me,” he said quietly. “You wanted me at your side. I went.”

Zuko’s throat worked. Images flashed—Jin’s face, the way she’d looked at him when the name “Zuko” hit the air.

“She knows,” Zuko whispered.

Jet’s expression tightened. “I know.”

Zuko’s voice went raw. “And Aang saw me. Katara saw me. We ruined—”

Jet stepped closer, voice low and steady, cutting through Zuko’s spiral the way he always did when Zuko teetered.

“You got out,” Jet said. “You kept her alive. You didn’t burn the market to ash. That’s what matters.”

Zuko’s eyes burned. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

Jet’s gaze flicked over the edge of the roofline, toward where the Gaang would be regrouping—toward the plan that was now on fire.

“They’ll come,” Jet said.

Zuko swallowed hard, staring back in the direction of the market—back toward Jin.

“I know,” Zuko whispered.

And somewhere below, Zuko could already hear it: Aang’s voice calling again, desperate and bright, echoing through the city.

Not just for Appa.

For answers. For betrayal. For Jet.

For him.

Chapter Text

The market didn’t calm down so much as rearrange itself around the crater.

People picked up scattered vegetables. Vendors righted carts. Someone yelled about singed curtains. The smell of smoke and spilled fruit hung in the air.

Jin stood very still in the middle of it, hands shaking around the strap of her bag, eyes fixed on the rooftop where Zuko and Jet had vanished.

Zuko.

The name still felt wrong in her mouth, like she’d been pronouncing his whole life backward.

Aang approached her first.

He moved carefully, hands visible, like he was approaching a skittish animal. His eyes were big and worried and too kind for how much his world had just tilted.

“Um… hi,” he said, voice soft. “I’m Aang.”

Jin blinked. “I know,” she said faintly. “Everybody knows.”

Aang flushed a little. “Right.”

Katara stepped up beside him, still tense, still coiled. The water at her hip had calmed, but her eyes hadn’t.

“I’m Katara,” she said. “This is my brother Sokka.”

Sokka lifted his boomerang in a stiff half-wave. “Still mad,” he said. “Also hi.”

Toph sauntered up last, bare feet stepping around a squashed melon. “I’m Toph,” she said. “You probably haven’t heard of me.”

Jin looked at the four of them like they were an illustration from a storybook that had just walked off the page and started breaking stalls.

“I…” she managed. “You’re… the Avatar’s group.”

Aang winced. “We’re usually less… market-destroying,” he said.

Sokka coughed. “Debatable.”

Katara’s attention stayed locked on Jin. “You know Zuko,” she said, not quite a question.

Jin’s throat tightened. The name felt like reaching for a hand and grabbing a knife instead.

“I know Lee,” she said, a little too sharply. “Or I thought I did.”

Toph tilted her head, listening to the way Jin’s weight shifted on the stones. “She didn’t know,” Toph said quietly.

Sokka frowned. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” Toph said. “Her heartbeat went nuts when we said ‘prince.’ In the bad way.”

Jin swallowed hard. “Is it true?” she whispered. “He’s… he’s the Fire Nation prince?”

The words felt like spitting poison.

Aang’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah,” he said softly. “His name is Zuko. We’ve… met.”

Katara’s jaw clenched. “He chased us across half the world.”

Sokka crossed his arms. “He tried to capture Aang. Multiple times. With fire. On purpose.”

Jin flinched. “But he—he works in a tea shop. He makes jokes about… well, no, he doesn’t really make jokes, but—” Her voice cracked. “He’s kind. He’s awkward. He—”

“People can be two things,” Toph said bluntly. “Trust me, I know a little something about double lives.”

Jin looked at her, tears pricking. “Were you going to arrest him?”

Sokka squinted. “Arrest? I mean, we’re not, like, official—”

“Stop,” Katara cut in, firm but not unkind. She took a breath, forcing her voice to soften. “We’re not here to hurt you,” she told Jin. “And we’re not here to hurt random people in the city. But we need to find Appa. And Zuko—” she almost spat the name, “—knows more than he’s said.”

Aang stepped forward again. “We need to talk to him,” he said. “Please. That’s all.”

Jin looked down at her hands. They were still shaking.

“I don’t… know where he is,” she said. “He just—disappears sometimes. For hours. Days.” She let out a humorless laugh. “I thought he was just… moody.”

Sokka muttered, “Dangerously moody.”

Jin’s jaw clenched. “He comes and goes,” she went on. “But there’s one place he always ends up.”

Toph’s head lifted. “Tea shop?”

Jin nodded slowly. “He works there with his uncle. He… likes it there.”

Katara’s eyes narrowed. “Where.”

Jin hesitated.

If she told them, she’d be giving them the only safe thing she knew he had. The place where he smiled without realizing. The place where she’d first seen him laugh.

But he had lied to her.

About his name. About his past. About everything.

She thought of the fire bursting out of his hands. Of the way he’d shouted “Jet” and the boy had obeyed like it was breathing. Of the way the Avatar had looked at him—with recognition and hurt.

Jin lifted her chin, something hard settling under the hurt. “I’ll take you,” she said.

Aang’s face brightened with desperate hope. “Really?”

Jin nodded. “If he knows anything about… Appa.” She stumbled over the unfamiliar name, then forced herself to continue. “If he… took your friend, I want to know what else he lied about.”

Toph smirked faintly. “I like her.”

Sokka pointed a warning finger. “If this is a trap—”

Jin turned a fierce look on him that startled even Katara. “I’m not lying,” she said. “Unlike some people.”

Toph nodded once. “She’s not lying.”

Katara exhaled slowly, then offered a small, grim smile. “Lead the way.”

The walk to the tea shop felt longer than it really was.

Jin kept thinking she’d wake up back at her apartment with the taste of tea in her mouth and Zuko’s awkward half-smile still fresh in her mind. Instead, she was guiding the Avatar and his friends through streets she’d walked a thousand times, and nothing felt familiar anymore.

Aang tried, once, to break the silence.

“I like tea,” he offered weakly.

Sokka muttered, “You like everything.”

Toph snorted. “Except losing your bison.”

Aang’s shoulders hunched, hurt flashing across his face. Katara shot the other two a look, then put a hand on Aang’s shoulder.

“We’ll find him,” she said. “One way or another.”

They turned a final corner, and there it was: the modest little shop with its neat sign, its clean windows, its door she’d walked through so many times without thinking.

The smell hit first—familiar and comforting: toasted leaves, steam, something sweet hanging in the air.

Jin’s stomach twisted.

She paused just outside, suddenly unsure. “This is it,” she said, voice tight.

Aang swallowed. “Appa could have been here,” he whispered, like he was afraid to hope.

Sokka frowned. “Why would they keep a sky bison in a tea shop?”

Toph shrugged. “Free milk?”

Even Katara couldn’t help the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Jin took a breath and pushed the door open.

The bell chimed.

Inside, the shop was a small picture of peace—polished tables, sunlight through the windows, a few late customers hunched over cups.

Behind the counter, Iroh looked up.

For half a heartbeat, his expression was simply welcoming. “Ah, welcome—”

His eyes landed on Jin.

Then on Aang.

Then on Katara, Sokka, and Toph arrayed behind her like a storm front.

Iroh’s smile didn’t falter.

But it changed.

“—to the best tea in Ba Sing Se,” he finished, smoothly. “How can I help you today?”

Jin’s throat tightened at the familiar warmth in his voice.

“Mr. Mushi,” she managed. “I… brought some friends.”

Iroh’s gaze softened at her, then moved back to the others, taking in the airbender tattoos, the Water Tribe clothes, the earthbender’s bare feet. His eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on Aang’s staff.

Understanding flickered there. Quiet, deep, impossible to miss.

He wiped his hands on his apron and inclined his head. “It is always a pleasure to meet Jin’s friends,” he said. “Please, sit.”

Sokka squinted. “That’s it? No ‘why is the Avatar in my shop’ or ‘please don’t firebend the furniture’?”

Iroh chuckled. “My boy, do you often introduce yourself so plainly everywhere you go?”

Aang flushed. “Uh… not exactly.”

Katara stepped forward, wary. “We’re not here for tea,” she said.

“Speak for yourself,” Toph muttered, nose twitching. “Smells good.”

Iroh’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “Tea is what I have to offer,” he said, “and conversation is cheaper when the cups are full.”

Jin took a hesitant step closer to the counter. “Where’s Lee?” she asked, the fake name tasting bitter now. “And Jet?”

For the first time, something shifted behind Iroh’s eyes—quick pain, masked almost instantly.

He set a pot on a tray with practiced hands. “Lee is out on an errand,” he said gently. “Jet as well. The shop is… short-staffed today.”

Toph’s head tilted. “He’s not lying,” she said, grudgingly. “But he’s not saying everything either.”

Iroh glanced at her with a hint of impressed delight. “Ah. A truth-listener,” he said. “You must be very popular at parties.”

Toph smirked. “Wouldn’t know. I don’t go to boring ones.”

Sokka scowled. “Okay, can we focus? Your nephew—I mean, ‘Lee’—just tried to flambé the marketplace. With Jet. Who we thought was on our side.”

Jin flinched at the word “nephew.” It slotted into place too easily: the way they moved together, the way Iroh always looked at Zuko like he’d hung the moon and was trying very hard not to say it out loud.

She looked at Iroh, hurt open and raw. “Is it true?” she whispered. “Is he really… Zuko?”

The name wobbled, wrong on her tongue.

Iroh’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second.

He looked at her with such gentleness that Jin’s chest ached.

“He is my nephew,” Iroh said quietly. “His name is Zuko.”

The words landed like a stone.

Jin’s eyes filled. She swallowed, jaw trembling. “You knew,” she said. “You made tea and… let me sit there and—and—”

Iroh’s face folded into something soft and sad. “I knew,” he said. “And I am sorry that you were hurt by that knowing.”

Katara stepped beside Jin, shoulders squared. “Your nephew chased us,” she said, anger held tight and controlled. “Across the world. And now he’s here. With Appa missing.”

Iroh’s gaze moved to her. He studied her for a moment—the set of her jaw, the hurt under her anger—and nodded once, as if recognizing something.

“I have never denied my nephew’s… mistakes,” Iroh said. “Nor my nation’s.”

Sokka scoffed. “That’s one way to describe ‘colonizing half the world.’”

Iroh inclined his head. “I did not say they were small.”

Aang stepped forward, eyes bright and desperate. “Do you know where Appa is?” he asked. “Please. We just want to find him.”

Pain flickered cleanly across Iroh’s face. “I know your bison is dear to you,” he said. “I have seen the bond between sky bison and airbender before. I…” He spread his hands. “I do not know where he is.”

Toph listened, brows furrowed. “He’s telling the truth,” she said. “About the bison, anyway.”

“Toph,” Sokka hissed.

“What? He is,” she said. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t know other stuff.”

Katara’s eyes narrowed. “Zuko’s been following us. Jet’s been helping us—or so we thought.” Her teeth clenched. “We’re not leaving until we get answers.”

Jin looked at Iroh, voice shaking. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered. “Why did you let me… fall for him if you knew he was lying?”

The shop went very, very quiet.

Even Sokka shut up.

Iroh’s expression shattered for a second—just a second.

He set the pot down very carefully.

“Because,” Iroh said softly, “for the first time in a long time, I saw my nephew smile like a boy his age should. Because I saw you see him as something other than a scar and a title and a failure. Because I hoped…” He trailed off, grief and guilt warring in his eyes.

He took a breath and finished, “I hoped, selfishly, that a little kindness might heal what years of expectation and cruelty had broken.”

Jin’s lips trembled. “He lied,” she said again, because that was the only solid thing left to hold onto.

Iroh nodded. “He did,” he said. “And that is his burden to explain. Not mine to excuse.”

Sokka slammed his boomerang down on the counter. “We’re done with vague wise old man talk,” he declared. “We need information. You’re his uncle. You have to know what he’s planning.”

Iroh looked at the boomerang. Then at Sokka. Then at the small scorch mark on the counter where Zuko had once singed the wood by accident.

“He is planning many things,” Iroh said. “Some wise. Some foolish. Some…” He smiled sadly. “Some are the plans of a boy who does not yet know who he is allowed to be.”

Aang’s hands curled into fists. “Does one of those plans involve giving Appa back?”

Iroh’s gaze softened. “If my nephew had your bison,” he said quietly, “I do not believe he would keep him from you.”

Toph’s head tilted. “That one’s murky,” she said. “Feels like… guessing. Not lying.”

Katara exhaled through her nose, frustrated. “Then who does have him?”

Iroh spread his hands. “This city has many secrets,” he said. “And many people who think they can control what others love.”

He poured tea into five cups—one extra, for a boy who wasn’t there—and set them on the counter.

“I cannot tell you what I do not know,” Iroh said. “But I can tell you this: Zuko’s path is… tangled. He has been chasing the Avatar for so long that he has forgotten how to run toward anything else.”

Aang flinched.

“And Jet?” Katara asked, voice tight. “Because he stood with us. He told us he’d changed. And then he—” her breath hitched, “—he walked to Zuko’s side like he’s been there forever.”

Iroh’s eyes lowered briefly. “Jet was assigned to my nephew very young,” he said. “He was trained to see Zuko as his duty.” His gaze lifted to Katara, gentle but firm. “Duty runs deep. Even when the heart is pulled in other directions.”

Toph’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” she said under her breath. “Ohhh.”

Sokka blinked. “What ‘oh’ is that. That’s your ‘this is juicy, I’m not telling’ oh.”

Toph smirked. “Maybe it is.”

Aang wrapped his hands around the cup Iroh slid toward him, even as he frowned. “So Jet’s been… what. A bodyguard this whole time?”

“Among other things,” Iroh said.

Katara’s jaw clenched, hurt back in full force. “We trusted him,” she said again. “We let him walk with us. Sleep near us. We told him things. And he…” Her hands shook. “He told Zuko.”

Iroh’s voice went very gentle. “I suspect he told Zuko less than you fear,” he said. “And more than he wanted.”

Jin’s brows knit. “Why would he… choose Zuko?”

Iroh’s smile turned sad. “Because my nephew needs someone,” he said simply. “And Jet has always needed to give his loyalty to something. It is… who he is.”

Toph crossed her arms. “He also chose to lie to us.”

Iroh nodded. “Yes. And that is on him.”

The door jingled as someone left, leaving the shop suddenly emptier—just them and the ghost of Zuko in every scuff on the floorboards.

Aang took a shaky breath. “We still have to find Appa,” he said. “Even if Zuko and Jet are… doing whatever they’re doing.”

Sokka pointed the boomerang at Iroh again, less aggressively this time. “If they come back,” he said, “we’ll be waiting.”

Toph’s lips curled. “I like those odds.”

Jin closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, a new resolve hardening under the hurt.

“If he comes back,” she said quietly, “I want to be here.”

Katara looked at her. “You don’t have to be involved in this,” she said. “It’s dangerous.”

Jin shook her head. “I already am,” she said. “Whether I like it or not.”

Iroh watched them all, his expression something like pride twisted with dread.

“You may wait here,” he said softly. “Drink tea. Plan. Heal. The door is open to you.”

Sokka squinted. “Even though we’re…?”

“Children,” Iroh said, smiling faintly. “All of you, in different uniforms.”

Aang stared down into his cup. “Feels like more than that,” he murmured.

Iroh’s gaze was steady. “The world will make you many things,” he said. “Soldiers. Symbols. Enemies.” His eyes softened. “But in here, for a little while, you may simply be… yourselves.”

Katara exhaled slowly, tension easing by degrees she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Toph took a sip of tea, eyebrows lifting. “Okay, fine,” she said. “This is good.”

Sokka sniffed his suspiciously, then drank and visibly struggled not to admit he liked it.

Aang held his cup like it was a fragile thing. “If Zuko comes back,” he said, “we need to talk to him. Not just fight.”

Katara’s jaw clenched, but she nodded once.

Jin stared at the empty space behind the counter where Zuko should’ve been, eyes shining.

“And if he doesn’t,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone, “then I guess I know my answer.”

Iroh watched her with such deep, aching sympathy that it almost hurt to look at.

Outside, the city went on pretending there was no war.

Inside a small tea shop in the Lower Ring, the Avatar’s group and the girl who’d fallen for a boy named Lee sat at a counter and waited for a prince and his shadow to walk back through the door.

They found the room by accident—because in Ba Sing Se, if you walked far enough and looked tired enough, someone would always offer you something for a few coins and no questions.

It was above a shuttered noodle stall in the Lower Ring: a staircase that smelled like old broth, a landing lit by one trembling oil lamp, and a door with a warped frame that didn’t quite close unless you lifted it as you pushed.

Jet checked the lock twice anyway.

Inside, the “room” was barely a room—more like a box someone had decided could be rented. One small window, half-painted over. A washbasin with cold water. A single bed shoved against one wall, the blanket thin and worn. A chair with one leg shorter than the others.

Zuko stood in the middle of it, breathing hard, still keyed up from the market. His eyes flicked over everything like he was judging how much of this was insult and how much was survival.

“This is worse than the apartment,” he muttered.

Jet shrugged off his coat and draped it over the chair, already scanning corners. “Less people know about it.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Great. A secret dump.”

Jet shot him a look. “You want safe or do you want comfortable?”

Zuko opened his mouth, then shut it. His anger had nowhere clean to go right now. It just sat under his skin like heat.

Jet tested the window latch. “We’ll stay until dawn. Then we move.”

Zuko’s shoulders sagged a fraction. “And Jin?”

Jet paused—just a beat. “We can’t fix that tonight.”

Zuko’s hands curled into fists, then loosened again. He looked suddenly exhausted, like the fight had been holding him upright and now that it was gone his body remembered it was human.

Jet watched him for a moment, then said quietly, “Sit.”

Zuko glared on instinct—then sat on the edge of the bed anyway, because his knees were shaking and he was too tired to pretend they weren’t.

The mattress dipped under him with a soft, pathetic squeak.

Jet dug into his coat pocket and produced a small roll of cloth—bandages, neat and practical. He crouched in front of Zuko and took Zuko’s hand without asking, turning it palm-up. There were faint burn marks on his knuckles from throwing fire too close, and scraped skin from climbing.

Zuko tensed. “I’m fine.”

Jet didn’t look up. “Sure.”

He began wrapping Zuko’s hand with practiced care, tight enough to support, gentle enough not to hurt. The touch was matter-of-fact, but it made Zuko’s pulse jump anyway—because Jet’s hands were warm, and Zuko had been cold inside for hours.

When Jet finished, he tied it off and finally looked up.

“Any other injuries?” Jet asked.

Zuko’s throat worked. “No.”

Jet’s eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t the question.”

Zuko hesitated, then grudgingly lifted his shirt hem a little to show a bruise forming at his ribs where he’d slammed into a stall edge. He looked away as he did it, as if looking would make it real.

Jet’s jaw tightened. “Idiot.”

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “It wasn’t—”

Jet pressed two fingers gently along the edge of the bruise, testing. Zuko flinched hard.

Jet’s voice went low. “Breathe.”

Zuko inhaled, shaky.

Jet nodded once, satisfied. “No crack. Just going to hurt.”

Zuko’s voice came out tight. “Everything hurts.”

Jet’s mouth twitched like he wanted to make a joke and couldn’t quite find one that didn’t feel like a lie.

He stood and moved to the basin, wet a cloth, and came back. He wiped at the dirt on Zuko’s cheek with careful strokes.

Zuko stayed very still.

The room was so small there was nowhere for the moment to go. No distance to retreat into. Just Jet’s hand at his face, and Zuko’s breath catching when the cloth brushed too close to the corner of his mouth.

Jet paused, eyes flicking to Zuko’s. “Sorry,” he murmured, and the apology was so quiet it barely existed.

Zuko swallowed. “It’s fine.”

Jet’s gaze held his for a beat too long.

Then Jet straightened and glanced at the bed like it had personally offended him. “One bed.”

Zuko’s ears warmed immediately. “We don’t have to—”

Jet cut him off, calm. “We’re not sleeping on the floor. Not tonight.”

Zuko’s throat tightened at the firmness in Jet’s tone—the same tone Jet used when he decided something was non-negotiable. The bodyguard voice. The palace voice.

Zuko tried to make his own voice cold. “And if I order you to sleep on the floor?”

Jet’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Then I disobey.”

Zuko blinked, thrown, then felt something strange loosen in his chest—half irritation, half relief.

Jet added, quieter, “Unless you actually want me away from you.”

Zuko’s breath caught.

He didn’t answer right away, because answering meant admitting there was a part of him that didn’t want to be alone in a room right now. Not after Jin. Not after Aang. Not after hearing Jet say my lord like a knife slipping into a sheath.

Zuko looked down at his bandaged hand. “No,” he said roughly. “I don’t want you away.”

Jet’s expression shifted—something soft passing through it before he buried it again.

“All right,” Jet said.

He pulled off his boots, then sat on the bed, careful not to jostle Zuko. The mattress dipped again, and suddenly their shoulders were close enough to touch.

Zuko’s entire body went hyperaware.

Jet reached up and tugged at the lamp wick, lowering the light until the room was mostly shadow. It made everything quieter. More private. More dangerous.

Zuko stared at the dim window. “If they come to the tea shop…”

Jet’s voice came from close by. “Iroh can handle himself.”

“I know.” Zuko’s jaw clenched. “That’s not what I meant.”

Jet didn’t answer right away. Then: “We’ll go back when it’s safe.”

Zuko huffed a humorless laugh. “Nothing’s safe anymore.”

Jet shifted—closer, just an inch—and Zuko felt it like a spark.

“Zuko,” Jet said softly.

Zuko turned his head.

In the low light, Jet’s eyes looked darker. Steadier. The same eyes that had watched him since he was a kid stealing red bean buns. The same eyes that had held him through fever nightmares. The same eyes that had chosen him in front of the Avatar.

Zuko’s voice came out hoarse. “What.”

Jet’s gaze flicked to Zuko’s mouth and back, like he was checking himself. “You did good today,” he said quietly. “You got Jin out. You didn’t burn the market. You didn’t—” He swallowed. “You didn’t become what they think you are.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. “They know what I am.”

Jet’s hand slid across the blanket toward Zuko’s—slow, deliberate. He didn’t grab. He just waited, fingers hovering like he’d stop the second Zuko pulled away.

Zuko didn’t pull away.

Jet’s fingers closed gently over his, warm against the bandage. “I know what you are,” Jet murmured.

Zuko’s heart hammered. “Yeah?”

Jet leaned in—not rushing, not forcing—close enough that Zuko could feel his breath. “Yeah,” he said.

Zuko swallowed, trying to find anger to hide behind, and failing. “You’re too close.”

Jet’s mouth curved faintly. “Move me, then.”

Zuko should have shoved him away.

Instead, he turned his hand under Jet’s and gripped back—tight, like he was afraid Jet would vanish if he didn’t hold on.

Jet went still, like that single choice hit him harder than any fight.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Jet lifted his free hand and touched Zuko’s cheek—careful, reverent, like Zuko might break. His thumb brushed lightly along the edge of Zuko’s scar, not tracing, not probing—just acknowledging.

Zuko’s breath caught, sharp.

Jet’s voice went lower. “Is this okay?”

Zuko stared at him, pulse roaring in his ears.

“Yeah,” Zuko whispered. “It’s okay.”

Jet leaned in.

The kiss was slow, controlled at first—like Jet was still trying to follow rules that didn’t apply here. Like he was still half in a palace hallway where someone might catch them.

Zuko made a small sound in his throat—frustration, need, relief—and the control snapped.

He kissed Jet back harder, pulling him in by the front of his shirt, anger and want tangling together until Zuko couldn’t tell which one was making his hands shake.

Jet exhaled against his mouth, and his hand slid to the back of Zuko’s neck—firm, steady, anchoring him the way he always did.

For a moment the whole world narrowed to warmth and breath and the thin bed under them, to the way Jet’s body fit close like it belonged there, to the way Zuko’s chest finally stopped feeling hollow.

Jet broke the kiss just enough to press his forehead to Zuko’s, both of them breathing too hard.

“Still okay?” Jet murmured.

Zuko swallowed, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t stop.”

Jet’s mouth twitched, almost helpless. “That’s not what I asked.”

Zuko’s fingers tightened in Jet’s shirt. “Yes,” he said, rough. “It’s okay.”

Jet let out a quiet breath like a surrender, then kissed him again—deeper this time, slower and more sure, like he’d finally accepted there were no palace rules in this room except consent and whatever Zuko wanted.

Zuko shifted on the bed, pulling Jet with him until they were both lying down, tangled in thin blankets and shared heat. The mattress squeaked a protest and then gave up.

Jet hovered over him for a beat, braced on one arm, eyes searching Zuko’s face as if he needed to confirm this wasn’t another fever dream.

Zuko’s hand slid up to Jet’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. “I’m here,” he whispered.

Jet’s gaze softened so much it almost hurt. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I know.”

Outside, Ba Sing Se kept pretending.

Inside the tiny room, they held onto each other like the world couldn’t take this too—like if they stayed close enough, the storm would have to pass around them.

And when the line between fighting and needing finally blurred into something neither of them had words for, Jet pulled the blanket up around them and pressed one last kiss to Zuko’s mouth—gentle, promise-like—before they disappeared into the dark together, safe for a few stolen hours.

Chapter Text

Appa was alive.

Aang felt it before he saw it—like the air itself knew his other half was near.

They’d followed the warehouse code Jet had helped uncover, then the next thread after that: a delivery corridor that didn’t exist on any public map, a stone tunnel that bent under the city like a swallowed secret. Dai Li agents had tried to redirect them with polite smiles and practiced phrases.

Toph had stomped once and gone still. “They’re lying,” she’d said, voice flat. “And they’re scared.”

That was all Katara needed.

They moved fast—too fast to be careful, too desperate to be smart—and by the time they reached the hidden holding chamber, the air was cold and damp and smelled like straw left too long in the dark.

Aang pushed past everyone, heart in his throat.

And there he was.

Crouched low in the gloom, chained to the stone with earthbent restraints. Fur dusty. Eyes dulled with exhaustion—until they landed on Aang.

Appa’s head lifted.

A sound rumbled out of him, broken and huge.

Aang made a noise that wasn’t a word and sprinted, hands reaching through the bars and chains and any distance that still existed.

“Appa,” he breathed, like a prayer. “Appa—I’m here.”

Appa pressed his massive head toward him as far as the restraints allowed, nostrils flaring, and Aang buried his face in fur that smelled like home and grief.

Behind him, Katara’s eyes were bright and furious. “They had him,” she whispered, voice shaking with rage.

Sokka’s hands clenched. “Dai Li,” he spat. “Of course.”

Toph planted her feet and listened to the room like it was speaking directly into her bones. “There’s agents,” she said. “And they’re coming.”

It didn’t matter.

Not anymore.

Aang pulled back, eyes wet, and the air around him shifted—wind gathering, pressure building like a held breath.

“I’m getting him out,” Aang said, voice quiet and terrifyingly steady.

Katara stepped beside him, water curling at her wrists. “We’re getting him out.”

Sokka lifted his boomerang, jaw tight. “And we’re breaking a few rules on the way.”

Toph cracked her knuckles. “Finally.”

The Dai Li arrived seconds later, sliding into the chamber like ghosts in green and stone. The lead agent smiled as if he were offering directions.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly. “There is no sky bison in—”

Toph stomped.

The floor rippled, the agent’s stance faltered, and the lie died in his mouth.

Katara’s water snapped forward. Sokka’s boomerang spun. Aang’s wind hit like a sudden storm, slamming agents back into walls hard enough to rattle the chamber.

Earth hands shot from the floor for Appa’s chains—Toph’s bending precise and brutal—cracking restraints that were never meant to be tested by someone like her.

Stone snapped.

Metal shrieked.

Appa surged forward, free, a huge, trembling force of relief and rage.

Aang leapt up onto his head without thinking, grabbing fur with shaking hands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into Appa’s forehead. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Appa rumbled again, and the sound was both forgiveness and fury.

The Dai Li tried to regroup.

They didn’t stand a chance.

Aang raised his staff, eyes bright, and the air roared.

“Appa—YIP YIP!”

The chamber exploded into motion: wind, water, stone, and a sky bison smashing through a secret that Ba Sing Se had buried deep.

They burst into daylight like breaking the surface of water.

Appa’s wings caught air, heavy and glorious.

Aang laughed and sobbed at the same time, clinging to his bison’s fur as the city fell away beneath them.

Katara wiped her face with the heel of her hand, smiling through tears.

Sokka stared down at the shrinking rooftops and muttered, “Okay, I officially forgive you for shedding everywhere.”

Toph leaned back against Appa’s saddle like she’d always belonged in the sky. “Ha,” she said. “Told you he was here.”

As Ba Sing Se’s walls slid past below, Katara’s expression hardened again—anger settling back into place.

“They did this,” she said. “The Dai Li. Long Feng. This whole city.”

Sokka’s jaw clenched. “And Jet helped us get close enough to find him.”

Toph’s face stayed unreadable. “Jet helped,” she agreed. “And Jet lied.”

Aang’s hands tightened in Appa’s fur. His voice went quiet. “He chose Zuko.”

Katara looked out over the city, eyes sharp. “Then we choose Appa,” she said. “And we choose stopping whoever’s doing this.”

Toph shrugged. “Works for me.”

Appa rumbled, as if voting.

And with Appa beneath them, the Gaang flew—free and furious—toward the next fight.

Back in the Lower Ring, the tea shop door creaked open like it was afraid of what walked through it.

Zuko entered first, shoulders tight, hood up. Jet followed half a step behind, eyes scanning the street even as they slipped inside.

The shop smelled the same—tea leaves and wood and warmth.

But it felt different.

Because Jin was there.

She sat at the counter with both hands wrapped around a cup she hadn’t been drinking. Her eyes were red-rimmed, jaw set too hard, like she’d been holding herself together by sheer spite.

Iroh stood behind the counter with his apron on, calm in the way only Iroh could be when the world was on fire. He was polishing a cup that was already clean.

The bell over the door chimed.

Jin’s head snapped up.

Zuko stopped dead.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Jin’s gaze flicked to Jet, then back to Zuko. Hurt flared, then hardened into something sharper.

“Lee,” she said. The fake name sounded like an accusation.

Zuko swallowed hard. “Jin.”

Jet shifted slightly—closer to Zuko, not blocking Jin, but present. A quiet line drawn.

Iroh set the cup down gently. “Welcome back,” he said, voice warm and steady, as if this were an ordinary evening and not the edge of a cliff.

Zuko’s throat tightened. “Uncle…”

Iroh’s eyes softened. “Go on,” he said gently. “Say what you came to say.”

Zuko’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He looked like he wanted to run. He looked like he wanted to burn something. Instead, he stepped forward—one step, then another—until he was close enough that Jin could see his face clearly.

No masks. No jokes. No “fine.”

Just him.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko said, the words rough. “For lying to you. For letting you—” His voice caught, and he forced it through. “—for letting you care about someone who wasn’t real.”

Jin’s eyes flashed. “Wasn’t real?” she snapped, voice breaking. “You were real. You were right there. You laughed at stupid stories and argued about buns and—” She pressed a hand to her chest, like it physically hurt. “So what part of you was real?”

Zuko flinched.

“All of it,” he said, fast. Honest. “All of it was me.”

Jin’s eyes shone. “Then why lie?”

Zuko’s mouth opened—and for once he didn’t have a quick answer.

Iroh’s voice came quietly from behind the counter. “Because fear teaches people to hide,” he said, not excusing, just explaining. “And my nephew has had a great deal of fear.”

Jin’s gaze flicked to Iroh, then back to Zuko. “Say it,” she demanded. “Say who you are.”

Zuko inhaled, slow. Like he was bracing for a strike.

“My name is Zuko,” he said. “I’m… the Fire Lord’s son.”

Jin’s face tightened.

Zuko went on anyway, because stopping would be worse. “I was banished. I’ve been… chasing the Avatar for years. I came to Ba Sing Se because I thought I could find him here.”

Jin’s jaw trembled. “So you were using me.”

“No,” Zuko said immediately, fierce. “No. I didn’t—” He swallowed hard. “At first I just wanted to disappear. To not be Zuko for a while. And then I met you.”

Jin stared at him, breathing shallow.

“And I didn’t… plan to care,” Zuko admitted, voice low. “I didn’t plan for it to feel like—like being around you was the first time in a long time I could breathe.”

Jin’s eyes filled, but her voice stayed sharp. “And Jet?”

Zuko’s gaze flicked to Jet, then back to Jin. “Jet is… my bodyguard.”

Jin blinked, thrown. “Your bodyguard.”

Jet’s posture shifted, something old and formal sliding into place—not to intimidate, but because the truth had a shape in him.

“Yes,” Jet said quietly.

Jin looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time too. “But you were with the Avatar’s group.”

Jet didn’t dodge it. “Yes.”

“You lied to them,” Jin said, disbelief and disgust mixing. “You made them trust you.”

Jet’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Jin’s voice cracked. “Why?”

Jet glanced at Zuko—just once, quick as a reflex—then answered Jin directly.

“Because I was assigned to him when we were kids,” Jet said, voice steady. “Because I chose him long before I met them. And because when he called me, I answered.”

Jin’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment. When she opened them, they were wet and furious. “So when he ordered you—when he said ‘to my side’—that was… real.”

Jet nodded once. “Yes.”

Jin stared at Zuko, voice barely above a whisper now. “You really are a prince.”

Zuko’s throat worked. “Yes.”

“And you were just… drinking tea with me,” she said, tears spilling now, “like that didn’t matter.”

Zuko’s eyes burned. “It mattered,” he whispered. “That was the problem.”

A beat of silence, thick as steam.

Then Jin’s voice sharpened again, because pain always came with teeth in her.

“Did you take the Avatar’s bison?” she demanded.

Zuko’s head snapped up. “No.”

Jet said, at the same time, “No.”

Iroh’s voice was gentle but firm. “The bison is not here,” he added, calm. “And if it were, I would not be polishing cups right now.”

Jin stared at them, searching—then at Iroh, as if deciding whether she could trust him even if she couldn’t trust Zuko.

Toph’s absence meant there was no truth-stamp on the air. Only Jin’s own judgment.

Zuko took a step closer, careful, like approaching a skittish animal.

“Jin,” he said, voice quiet, “I’m not asking you to forgive me. I know what I did. I just… couldn’t leave without telling you the truth. Without telling you that what we had—what I felt—was real.”

Jin’s tears fell silently now. “You looked me in the eye,” she whispered, “and you lied about your name.”

Zuko’s voice broke. “I know.”

Jet shifted, then—very deliberately—stepped half a pace back, giving Zuko the space to be just Zuko, not prince-with-guard.

Iroh watched that small movement with a soft, complicated expression.

Jin took a shaky breath. “If you’re Zuko,” she said, voice trembling, “then who was Lee?”

Zuko swallowed. “Lee was… me, without the title. Without the chase.” His eyes were bright, raw. “Lee was who I wanted to be when I wasn’t trying to earn something I’ll never get.”

Jin’s mouth trembled. “And what do you want now?”

Zuko’s chest tightened.

He thought of the throne. Of his father. Of the way Jet had said I go where you go.

He thought of Appa posters. Of Aang’s voice. Of Ba Sing Se’s lies cracking open.

And he looked at Jin, and he told the truth, even though it scared him.

“I don’t know,” Zuko said. “But I know I don’t want to be someone who hurts you.”

Jin’s eyes squeezed shut again. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand, angry at herself for crying.

Then she stood abruptly, chair scraping.

Zuko tensed like he expected a slap.

Jin didn’t hit him.

She just stared at him—long, hard, grieving.

“I don’t know if I can ever trust you,” she said, voice shaking. “I don’t know if I can look at that scar the same way again. I don’t know if I can forget that you stood in a market and people called you ‘monster’ and part of me… understood why.”

Zuko flinched like each word was a blade.

Jin’s breath hitched. “But I also don’t know how to erase the boy who laughed at an ‘angry duck’ story and looked like he couldn’t believe anyone was being kind to him.”

Zuko’s eyes shone.

Jin turned her gaze to Jet, voice bitter. “And you—don’t ever charm me again.”

Jet’s mouth twitched once, not a smile—something like relief at being clearly told what line not to cross. He inclined his head. “Understood.”

Jin looked back at Zuko. “I’m going home,” she said, voice thick. “I need… time.”

Zuko nodded once, rigid. “Okay.”

Jin hesitated at the door. Her hand hovered on the latch. She didn’t look back when she spoke.

“If you ever want to be honest,” she said, voice small, “then don’t come as ‘Lee.’ Don’t come as a prince. Just… come as yourself.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. “I will.”

Jin opened the door and stepped out into the Lower Ring daylight, and the bell chimed softly behind her like the end of something fragile.

For a moment, none of them moved.

Then Iroh exhaled, slow, and set a fresh cup of tea on the counter in the empty space where Jin had been sitting.

“Tea?” he offered gently, as if tea could hold the world together.

Zuko stared at the cup like it was a judgment.

Jet stepped in close—not touching, but near enough to anchor—voice low.

“They found the bison,” Jet said.

Zuko’s head snapped up. “What?”

Jet nodded once. “Dai Li had him. The Avatar got him out.”

Iroh’s shoulders sagged with relief so quiet it almost didn’t show. “Thank goodness,” he murmured.

Zuko’s chest clenched, emotions tangling: relief, frustration, anger at missing it, fear at what it meant.

“They’ll come for us,” Zuko said, low.

Jet’s posture squared, that familiar readiness sliding back into place. “Let them.”

Iroh looked at both of them, eyes tired and kind. “Or,” he said softly, “perhaps you will go to them.”

Zuko stared at the tea, then at the door Jin had just walked through, then toward the front window where the city pretended not to be at war.

And finally he said, voice rough with inevitability, “Yeah.”

Jet’s voice came immediately, steady as an oath. “Wherever you go, I’m there.”

Iroh closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, resigned and proud all at once.

“Then drink your tea,” he said, gentle. “And decide what kind of man you will be when you walk out that door.”

Jin didn’t slam the door in his face.

That was the cruelest mercy of all.

She let him stand there in the hallway outside her building—hands empty, eyes too steady, the turtle-duck charm still tied to her wrist like a bruise—and she waited.

Not inviting him in. Not sending him away.

Just… waiting to see what he would do when he wasn’t allowed to hide.

Zuko swallowed, throat tight. “You said… if I wanted to be honest.”

Jin’s mouth trembled, but her voice stayed firm. “Yeah. I did.”

Jet wasn’t with him. Zuko had made him stay back. If he was going to do this, he had to do it without a guard in the room. Without someone else being the wall between him and the consequences.

Zuko stared at the floorboards, then up at her. “Can we talk somewhere not in the hallway?”

Jin hesitated. Then she stepped aside and let him in.

Her apartment smelled like tea and paper and the faint sweetness of dried fruit. It was small, but it felt lived-in in a way the palace never had—soft things, personal things, things that didn’t exist to impress anyone.

Zuko stood near the door like he didn’t trust himself to take up space.

Jin sat on the edge of her low couch and folded her hands tight in her lap.

“Okay,” she said, voice quiet. “Tell me.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. He forced the words out before he could lose his nerve.

“My father hated me,” he said.

Jin went still, eyes widening.

Zuko’s gaze flicked away, fixed on a crack in the wall like it was safer than looking at her face. “Not… all the time. Not in a way that was obvious at first.” His voice was flat, almost practiced. “He just—looked through me. Like I wasn’t what he wanted. Like every time I spoke, he was waiting for me to fail.”

Jin’s voice came out soft, disbelieving. “He’s your father.”

Zuko laughed once, sharp and humorless. “That doesn’t mean anything in the palace.”

He swallowed hard. “The palace runs on rules. Hierarchy. Perfection. You don’t get love for free. You earn it. You perform it.”

Jin’s hands tightened. “You said he scarred you… because you spoke out.”

Zuko’s breath hitched. “Yeah.”

He stared down at his hands. “I thought… if I did one good thing, if I said one brave thing, he’d finally see me. So I spoke in a war meeting. I told him his plan would get our soldiers hurt.”

Jin’s face tightened with horror.

Zuko’s voice dropped. “He challenged me to an Agni Kai. I didn’t even understand at first. I thought it was… a lesson. A demonstration.” His mouth twisted. “Then he stepped onto the arena floor.”

Jin covered her mouth, eyes shining.

Zuko didn’t describe it in detail. He didn’t need to. The scar did the talking.

“When I begged,” Zuko whispered, “he called it weakness.”

Jin’s eyes filled, and she forced herself to ask, “And your mother?”

Zuko’s throat tightened like a fist. “She’s… gone.”

Jin didn’t push.

Zuko breathed in, shaky. “After that, the palace got… stricter. Like the scar was proof I needed to be fixed.” His voice went dull again, defensive. “They assigned tutors. Combat instructors. Etiquette teachers.”

Jin frowned. “That sounds normal for a prince.”

Zuko’s laugh came out thin. “Not the way they did it.”

He finally looked at her then—eyes bright with something raw. “They hit me.”

Jin froze.

Zuko kept going, words spilling now like once he started he couldn’t stop. “Not in public. Not where it would ‘reflect poorly.’ But in lessons. If I got a form wrong. If I forgot a line. If my posture wasn’t perfect.” He swallowed. “If I flinched.”

Jin’s voice cracked. “They—teachers—hit you?”

Zuko nodded once, sharp. “Because it wasn’t called hitting. It was called discipline. Correction. Making the prince ‘strong.’”

Jin’s hands trembled. “That’s— that’s abuse.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “In the palace, it’s training.”

He looked away again, shame flickering across his face like a shadow. “And food… wasn’t normal either.”

Jin blinked. “What do you mean?”

Zuko’s voice went quieter. “If I displeased my father, meals would… disappear. Or I’d be made to sit and watch everyone else eat. Or they’d give me something bland and cold and call it ‘humility.’”

Jin’s face drained. “They starved you.”

Zuko flinched at the word like it was too blunt. “Not enough to kill me,” he said quickly, defensive. “Just enough to remind me I didn’t deserve comfort.”

Jin stared at him, stricken. “Zuko…”

He swallowed, and his voice got rough. “Do you understand why I stole buns?”

Jin’s eyes brimmed.

Zuko’s throat worked. “Sometimes I wasn’t even hungry,” he admitted. “Sometimes I just—” He clenched his bandaged hand. “Sometimes I needed to know I could take something for myself and not ask permission.”

Jin made a small sound like she was trying not to cry again.

Zuko forced himself to keep going, because he knew if he stopped he might retreat into anger.

“They trained me to be cruel,” he said quietly.

Jin’s brows knit. “How.”

Zuko’s eyes went distant. “They told me compassion was weakness. That mercy made you soft. That you only ruled if people feared you.” A beat. “My father didn’t want a son. He wanted a weapon that wore his face.”

Jin whispered, “Did you believe them?”

Zuko’s lips pressed together hard. His voice came out small, almost furious with himself. “Yes.”

Jin’s eyes widened.

Zuko’s shame flared, hot and sharp. “I tried so hard,” he said, voice cracking. “I tried to be what he wanted. I tried to make my voice colder. My hands steadier. I tried to stop caring. And when I couldn’t—when I kept failing—he punished me for it.”

Jin wiped at her cheek with the heel of her hand. “That’s why you’re… like you are.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Like what.”

Jin’s voice went gentle. “So tense. So angry when people are kind. Like you don’t trust it.”

Zuko stared at her, swallowing hard, because she was right and he hated how well she saw him.

“I didn’t lie to you because I wanted to hurt you,” he said, low. “I lied because if you knew who I was, you’d see all of that first.” He gestured vaguely at himself—at the scar, the title, the history. “And I couldn’t—” His breath hitched. “I couldn’t stand being looked at like a monster by someone who looked at me like I was… human.”

Jin’s face twisted with pain. “I did look at you like you were human.”

“I know,” Zuko whispered. “That’s why it mattered.”

Silence sat between them, thick and trembling.

Then Jin asked, very quietly, “And Jet?”

Zuko’s throat tightened. “Jet was… assigned to me when we were kids. He learned all the same rules. He learned how to survive in the palace by becoming perfect at standing in the right place, saying the right thing, never showing fear.”

Jin’s eyes narrowed. “So he’s loyal because that’s all he’s allowed to be.”

Zuko nodded once. “Yeah.”

Jin stared at Zuko like she was trying to reconcile the boy who’d laughed with her in the markets and the prince who’d been shaped like a blade.

“You didn’t deserve that,” she whispered.

Zuko’s laugh was bitter. “Deserve doesn’t matter.”

Jin shook her head, fierce. “It does to me.”

Zuko looked at her, stunned by the stubbornness in her voice.

Jin’s eyes were wet, but steady. “I’m still angry,” she said. “I’m still hurt. I don’t know what this makes us.” Her breath hitched. “But I’m not going to sit here and pretend what happened to you was normal. It wasn’t.”

Zuko’s throat burned. He stared down, fighting something that felt suspiciously like tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer. “For lying. For dragging you into—”

Jin cut him off, voice trembling but firm. “You didn’t drag me into your past,” she said. “You lived through it. Alone.”

Zuko’s chest tightened like someone had grabbed his ribs.

Jin took a shaky breath. “I need time,” she said. “But… thank you for telling me the truth.”

Zuko nodded once, rigid. “Okay.”

He turned toward the door like leaving was the only thing he knew how to do without breaking.

Behind him, Jin’s voice stopped him—quiet, small.

“When you stole those buns,” she said, “you weren’t being bad. You were being a kid.”

Zuko froze.

He didn’t trust his voice, so he didn’t answer.

He just stood there for a second longer than he should have, letting the words settle somewhere deep and aching.

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway—heart heavy, but a fraction less alone than he’d been when he walked in.

Jet was exactly where Zuko expected him to be.

Not hovering in the hallway like a stray, not pacing outside Jin’s door. That would’ve been too obvious, too desperate. Instead, he was leaned against the shadowed wall in the alley beside her building, hood up, one boot braced behind him, eyes on the mouth of the street.

Keeping watch without looking like he was.

Zuko stepped out into the cold air and pulled the door shut behind him as quietly as he could.

Jet’s head turned just enough to track him. “Well?”

Zuko stopped in front of him, coat wrapped tight, hands mostly empty. He looked wrung out—like he’d been held over a fire and not quite burned.

“How much did you hear,” he muttered.

Jet’s mouth twitched. “Only the part where you didn’t get thrown down the stairs.”

Zuko huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “She didn’t forgive me.”

Jet’s expression softened. “Did you expect her to?”

Zuko stared at the cobblestones. “No.”

Jet pushed off the wall, stepping closer, not quite crowding him. “Did you tell her?”

“Everything,” Zuko said. “About my father. The teachers. The… food.” His jaw clenched. “About you.”

Jet’s eyes flicked. “Me?”

Zuko nodded once. “Bodyguard. Palace training. How you were there.”

Jet watched him for a beat, reading the set of his shoulders, the tense line of his mouth. “And?”

Zuko swallowed. “She said she needs time.”

Jet let out a slow breath. “That’s more than a lot of people would give.”

“It still feels like losing,” Zuko muttered.

Jet’s voice gentled. “It is losing.” He let that sit, then added, “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth telling her.”

Zuko finally looked up at him. “She thinks what they did to me is wrong.”

Jet’s jaw tightened. “She’s right.”

Zuko glanced away quickly, as if accepting that out loud would make it too real. “She said I was a kid.”

Jet inclined his head. “You were.”

Zuko’s throat worked. “I don’t… feel like I was.”

Jet stepped just a little closer, enough that their shoulders almost brushed. “That’s because they never let you be one.”

Zuko exhaled, shaky. The alley felt too small for all of it—Jin’s face, his father’s voice, the way his scar seemed to burn when he said the words out loud.

He dragged a hand through his hair. “Everything’s coming apart.”

Jet’s eyes flicked past him, scanning the street again. “Yeah,” he said. “And it’s about to get worse.”

Zuko frowned. “What?”

Jet’s voice shifted—losing some of the softness, sliding back into the clipped, clear cadence he used when he had bad news to deliver.

“Your sister’s here,” he said.

The world narrowed.

“What,” Zuko said, flat.

Jet’s gaze held his. “Azula. She’s in the capital.”

Heat crawled up Zuko’s spine, different from bending, different from anger. “How do you know?”

“Signals are changing,” Jet said. “Dai Li patterns, watch rotations. They’re nervous in the wrong places.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean—”

“I saw her,” Jet cut in, no room for doubt. “Middle Ring. Moving under a guard escort that wasn’t Dai Li, wasn’t city guard. Too disciplined. Too… Fire Nation.”

Zuko’s stomach dropped. “You’re sure.”

Jet gave him a look. “Blue fire tends to stand out.”

Zuko’s breath caught. “She used—”

“Just a flicker,” Jet said. “Enough to threaten someone while she smiled. An official. Slippery type. The kind who thinks he runs the city unless someone bigger walks in.”

“Long Feng,” Zuko muttered.

“Probably,” Jet said. “I didn’t stick around for introductions.”

Zuko swore under his breath in Fire Nation curses he hadn’t used in months. “Of course she’s here. Of course—”

Jet’s voice stayed steady. “She brought two girls with her.”

Zuko grimaced. “Mai. Ty Lee.”

Jet nodded. “Acrobat and knife collection, yeah.”

Zuko paced two steps down the alley and back, breath coming fast. “If Azula’s here, she’s not just sightseeing. She’s going to try to take the city. Or the Avatar. Or both.”

Jet watched him move—restless, trapped. “She’s already in the walls. That means she’s either using the Dai Li, or planning to replace them.”

Zuko raked his fingers through his hair again. “She’ll come for us.”

“Eventually,” Jet agreed. “But we’re not her first priority.”

Zuko snapped his head up. “You don’t know that.”

Jet stepped in, close enough that Zuko had to stop pacing or run into him. “Think,” Jet said quietly. “If you were Azula, what’s the biggest prize?”

“The Avatar,” Zuko said instantly. “And control of Ba Sing Se.”

“Right,” Jet said. “We’re… a complication. A loose thread she’ll want to cut once she’s sewn the rest.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “She always finishes her work.”

Jet’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, I remember.”

They stood there for a beat, the cold air sharp around them.

Zuko whispered, “She’ll hurt Uncle.”

Jet shook his head, immediate. “Not if we move first.”

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “You want to run.”

“I want to reposition,” Jet corrected. “Get ahead of her. Choose the ground instead of waiting for her to pick it.”

Zuko’s anger flared. “You want me to leave Jin. Leave the shop. Leave—”

“Zuko,” Jet said, and there was something raw in his voice now, cutting through the strategy. “Azula doesn’t leave people. She breaks them or uses them. Jin is neither a soldier nor a bargaining chip. If she knows who you are and she’s near you when Azula looks this way—” He shook his head. “She won’t be safe.”

Zuko set his jaw. “I’m not running from my sister.”

Jet’s eyes softened, but his tone stayed firm. “Then run toward something,” he said. “Because right now, everything is converging on this city: you, the Avatar, the Dai Li, Azula. You can’t keep one foot in the tea shop and one on a warship forever.”

Zuko stared at him, breathing hard.

Jets words felt too close to what Iroh had said, in a different way. Decide what kind of man you will be when you walk out that door.

He looked back once at the building behind him, where Jin was probably sitting with a cup in her hands, trying to untangle truth from lies.

“She said… if I came back, to come as myself,” Zuko murmured.

Jet’s gaze held his, steady and unflinching. “Then figure out who that is,” he said. “Before Azula decides for you.”

Zuko let out a breath that felt like it scraped his lungs on the way out.

He stepped closer, the gap between them disappearing until his shoulder brushed Jet’s. “You’re sure it was her.”

Jet’s mouth curved, humorless. “I’ve only seen one person smile like the world is a chessboard she’s already won.”

Zuko flinched in recognition.

Jet added, lower, “And only one person who throws fire that color.”

Blue. Cold and merciless and beautiful in the worst way.

Zuko nodded slowly, dread hardening into something like resolve. “We go back to the shop,” he said. “We tell Uncle. Then we… decide.”

Jet exhaled, the faintest relief in the sound. “Okay.”

He reached out and squeezed Zuko’s bandaged hand once—not a pull, not a command. Just a brief, grounding pressure.

Zuko squeezed back before he could second-guess it.

“Whatever you decide,” Jet said quietly, “I’m with you.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. “Even if I choose wrong.”

Jet’s gaze didn’t waver. “Especially then.”

For a moment, the threat of Azula felt like a storm banked on the horizon—inevitable, deadly.

But between Zuko and the first crack of thunder, there was a boy in a worn coat, standing close, eyes sharp and sure, ready to move with him into whatever came next.

“Let’s go,” Zuko said.

They turned together and headed back toward the tea shop, toward Iroh, toward a city about to crack in half.

Chapter Text

The tea shop felt smaller when Jet said her name.

“Azula,” Zuko repeated, like tasting poison.

Iroh didn’t drop a cup. He didn’t gasp. He just set the kettle down with slow care, as if the table might shatter if he moved too fast. His eyes closed for a moment, and when he opened them, the warmth was still there—but behind it was something older. Sharper.

“So,” Iroh said softly. “The storm has arrived.”

Zuko’s hands clenched. “She’s here for me.”

“She is here for control,” Iroh corrected, calm. “You are… a useful thread. The Avatar is the tapestry.”

Jet stood by the door, posture locked in readiness. “What do we do?”

Zuko snapped, “We leave. Now. Get out before she—”

“No,” Iroh said, quietly enough that it stopped Zuko mid-breath.

Zuko turned on him, incredulous. “Uncle—”

Iroh looked at him, and the gentleness didn’t soften the truth. “Running will only make you tired,” he said. “Azula does not stop because you move. She only stops when she is defeated.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll defeat her.”

Iroh’s gaze held steady. “Not alone.”

Zuko’s scar twitched. “I don’t need—”

“You do,” Iroh said simply. “And you know it.”

Silence settled, thick with unspoken memories: blue fire in the courtyard, Zuko’s smallest failures turned into punishments, the way Azula smiled as she burned the world into shape.

Jet’s voice cut in, low. “You’re thinking the Avatar.”

Iroh nodded once. “Yes.”

Zuko’s head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

Iroh didn’t flinch. “Zuko,” he said gently, “you cannot defeat Azula with anger. She feeds on it. You need something stronger.”

Zuko’s eyes burned. “Stronger than—”

“Stronger than the need to prove yourself,” Iroh said softly.

Zuko swallowed hard.

Iroh stepped closer, lowering his voice as if he was trying not to wake the city itself. “You have been chasing the Avatar to earn your father’s approval,” he said. “But Azula is here to take your father’s place in this city’s shadow. If she succeeds, she will have Ba Sing Se. And if she has Ba Sing Se—” He exhaled. “The war ends the wrong way.”

Zuko’s fists tightened. “So what. You want me to walk up to Aang and say sorry?”

Iroh’s smile was sad. “Yes,” he said, and then, “And mean it.”

Jet shifted his weight, glancing toward the windows. “We don’t have time for a heartfelt reunion.”

As if the universe agreed, the shop bell chimed.

Aang stepped in first, face bright and exhausted with relief that didn’t quite know where to land yet. Katara followed like a shield. Sokka followed like suspicion made human. Toph strolled in like she owned the place.

And behind them all, Appa’s massive head filled the doorway for half a second before he backed away to avoid knocking the sign over.

The shop froze.

Aang’s eyes went immediately to Iroh, then to Zuko—hood down now, scar exposed—and then to Jet, standing just off to the side like he’d been waiting for them.

Aang’s hope flickered into wariness. “We… found Appa,” he said, like it mattered even when everything else was wrong. “The Dai Li had him.”

Katara’s gaze locked on Zuko like a blade. “So now we’re here for answers.”

Sokka pointed at Jet without preamble. “And maybe an apology from Captain Double-Agent.”

Toph’s head tilted, listening. “This is… tense,” she announced. “Fun.”

Zuko’s chest tightened. Every instinct screamed fight, run, burn, deny.

Iroh stepped forward before any of them could ignite the room.

“Welcome,” Iroh said warmly, and somehow it didn’t sound like a trap. “Please—tea.”

Katara’s eyes narrowed. “We’re not here for tea.”

“I know,” Iroh said gently. “But tea helps people speak without shouting.”

Sokka muttered, “Not always.”

Iroh’s gaze moved to Aang. “I am glad your bison is safe.”

Aang’s shoulders sagged with a fraction of relief. “Thanks.”

Then Aang looked at Zuko again. “Why are you here?” he asked, voice small but steady. “Why are you always here when something bad happens?”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. The answer rose like bile—because I have nothing else.

Before he could speak, Jet said quietly, “Because Azula is here.”

Katara went still. “Azula?”

Sokka’s eyes widened. “The crazy princess?”

Toph’s mouth twisted. “Ohhh, that one smells like lightning.”

Aang blinked. “Azula’s in Ba Sing Se?”

Iroh nodded once, face sober. “Yes.”

The room shifted. Even Katara’s anger recalibrated into something colder.

“She’s going to take the city,” Katara said.

“She already has a foot in it,” Jet replied.

Sokka’s boomerang hand twitched. “And you know this how.”

Jet met his gaze without flinching. “Because I saw her.”

Katara’s eyes flashed. “And you didn’t tell us.”

Jet’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t get the chance before the market.”

Toph’s head tilted. “He’s not lying.”

Katara’s eyes narrowed further. “That doesn’t make it better.”

Aang looked between them, overwhelmed. “Okay—okay, wait. Why are you telling us this?”

Iroh turned to Zuko, and the look was gentle but unmistakable: now.

Zuko’s throat tightened. His hands were fists at his sides, but he forced them open.

“I’m telling you because…” Zuko swallowed hard. “Because Iroh says I have to.”

Sokka scoffed. “Wow, inspirational.”

Zuko’s eyes flashed, then he forced the words out before anger could take them away. “Because Azula will destroy you,” he snapped, “and she’ll destroy this city, and she’ll use you as a trophy if she can.”

Aang’s face tightened. “You tried to use me as a trophy.”

“I know,” Zuko said, voice raw. “And I was wrong.”

Silence hit like a wall.

Katara’s eyes widened slightly—less at the words, more at the fact he’d said them.

Sokka stared like he didn’t trust his ears.

Toph smirked faintly. “Huh. He admitted it.”

Aang swallowed. “Why now?”

Zuko’s gaze flicked toward Iroh—then back to Aang. “Because my sister is worse than me,” he said, blunt. “And because I’m tired of her being right about everything.”

Jet stepped half a pace closer to Zuko without thinking. A protective reflex.

Katara noticed. Her jaw tightened. “And Jet? Where does he fit into this little confession?”

Jet’s voice went formal, automatic. “I protect Zuko.”

Sokka threw his hands up. “There it is again! ‘Protect Zuko!’ Like that explains why you slept next to our stuff for a week!”

Jet’s eyes flicked—pain, guilt—and then he forced himself to look at Aang.

“I did lie,” Jet said quietly. “I did use your trust.” His jaw clenched. “And I hate that I did.”

Katara’s hands curled. “Then why—”

“Because when he called me, I answered,” Jet said, voice rougher now. “That’s not an excuse. It’s just the truth.”

Toph nodded to herself. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Aang’s eyes were bright, hurt in them. “But you helped us find Appa.”

Jet’s gaze dropped briefly. “I did,” he said. “And I’m glad you found him.”

Aang looked lost, like too many truths didn’t fit in one day. “So… what do we do now?”

Iroh stepped forward again, and the air in the shop seemed to steady around him.

“Now,” Iroh said softly, “you do what Azula does not expect.”

Katara’s eyes narrowed. “Which is?”

Iroh looked at Zuko. “You stop chasing,” he said. “And you start choosing.”

Then he looked at Aang. “And you accept help from an unexpected place, because the world is larger than your pain.”

Aang stared. “Are you saying—”

“I am saying,” Iroh said gently, “that Zuko must stand with you if he is to survive Azula.”

Zuko stiffened. “Uncle—”

“And you must stand with him,” Iroh added, looking at Aang, “if you wish to defeat her in this city before she wins it.”

Katara’s expression sharpened into disbelief. “Absolutely not.”

Sokka nodded vigorously. “Seconded.”

Toph tilted her head. “I mean… strategically, it’s kind of smart.”

Katara glared at her. “Toph!”

Toph shrugged. “What? I’m not saying I like it. I’m saying it makes sense.”

Aang’s voice was small. “Zuko… would you even—”

A loud thump sounded outside, heavy and deliberate.

Then another.

Toph’s eyes widened. “Dai Li agents,” she said instantly. “And… other footsteps. Lighter. Confident.”

Iroh’s face went still. “Azula’s people,” he murmured.

Jet moved without thinking, sliding toward the front window to peek through the slats. His voice came out low. “Mai. Ty Lee. Dai Li escort.”

Zuko’s blood went cold. “They’re here.”

Katara’s water rose automatically at her wrists. Sokka’s boomerang was in hand. Aang’s staff lifted. Toph planted her feet.

The shop door handle turned.

And Iroh—calm, steady—said quietly, “It seems the universe has decided you do not have time to argue.”

The door opened.

A Dai Li agent stepped in first, smiling like a polite knife. “Good afternoon. We’re looking for—”

Blue fire flashed in the agent’s shadow, just a flicker, and the smile sharpened.

Azula’s voice floated in from outside, sweet as poison. “—my brother.”

Zuko’s heart hammered.

Jet’s posture snapped into full readiness beside him.

Aang’s eyes widened. “That’s—”

“Yep,” Sokka whispered. “That’s her.”

Katara’s gaze went hard. “Zuko,” she said, low. “If this is a trap—”

“It’s not,” Zuko snapped, then forced himself to breathe. “But she’ll assume you’re with me anyway.”

Aang swallowed. “So… we fight together?”

Iroh’s voice was gentle, but it carried like command. “Together,” he said.

The Dai Li agent’s gloves lifted.

Stone shifted under the floorboards.

And in the same breath—like the world finally snapped into one clear line—

Zuko stepped forward and lit his hands with fire.

Jet moved to his shoulder.

Katara stepped in on the other side, water coiling like a living ribbon.

Toph stomped, ready to crack the ground.

Sokka took position behind Aang, boomerang poised.

Aang lifted his staff, eyes wide but steady.

The first earth-hand burst through the floor.

Zuko’s fire flared to melt it back.

Toph slammed the floor, shattering the agent’s footing.

Katara’s water snapped forward, binding the gloves before they could form another strike.

Sokka’s boomerang took the agent’s hat clean off, making him yelp.

Aang’s gust of wind shoved the agent backward out the door—

—and suddenly the tiny tea shop was a battlefield of steam, stone, and startled customers diving for cover.

Outside, Ty Lee’s laugh rang bright. “Ooooh! This is fun!”

Mai’s voice followed, bored and deadly. “Can we get this over with?”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed, rage and dread tangling. “She’s really doing this. In public.”

Jet’s voice was tight. “She wants you panicked.”

Iroh moved behind the counter with shocking speed for a man his age, herding customers toward the back exit. “Out the back!” he called, calm but firm. “Please! Quickly!”

Katara glanced at him, surprised. “You’re—helping us.”

Iroh smiled without humor. “My dear, I have always been helping,” he said, and then: “Now—go!”

Another earth-hand shot up. Toph crushed it. Water lashed. Fire steamed it into fog. Wind cleared the air.

And through the open doorway, in the swirl of chaos, Azula’s silhouette appeared—perfect posture, perfect smile, blue flame dancing lazily in her palm like it belonged there.

“Well,” Azula purred, eyes sliding over Aang and the others with gleeful interest, “this is a charming little gathering.”

Her gaze locked on Zuko.

“Hello, Zuzu.”

Zuko’s chest tightened, but he didn’t back up.

He didn’t look away.

He just said, low and fierce, “Not today.”

Jet’s stance tightened at his side.

And for the first time, the Gaang saw it—not as a rumor or a trick, but as a reality in the way Zuko held himself:

He was terrified.

And he was still standing.

Katara’s voice came out tight. “We’re really doing this.”

Sokka muttered, “Against her? In a tea shop?”

Toph grinned, feral. “Best day ever.”

Aang swallowed, gripping his staff. “Okay,” he said, and his voice steadied. “Okay. Together.”

Zuko’s fire flared brighter.

Jet’s hand flexed near his hook swords.

Iroh’s eyes sharpened, no longer only kind—now also a general’s.

Azula smiled wider, delighted.

“Perfect,” she whispered.

And the fight spilled out into the street—tea steam and blue fire rising into Ba Sing Se’s fake peaceful sky—while, for one impossible moment, enemies became allies because they had no other choice.

The street outside the tea shop exploded into chaos fast.

Steam rushed out the door as Zuko blasted another earth-hand into vapor. Aang vaulted onto the roof edge with his staff. Katara had already pulled water from every pot and bucket in the shop; it swirled around her like a storm. Toph stomped once and the road buckled, creating cover. Sokka yelled something extremely unhelpful and extremely loud.

Azula just smiled wider.

“Look at you,” she cooed. “Friends, at last.”

She flicked her wrist.

Blue fire shot straight for Zuko.

He reacted on instinct—meeting it halfway with his own orange flame. The collision detonated in a burst of white-hot steam that knocked tiles loose and sent bystanders screaming.

Jet grabbed Zuko’s collar and yanked him sideways as a chunk of stone whistled past where his head had been.

“Eyes up,” Jet snapped. “She’s not alone.”

Mai stepped lightly onto a nearby awning, knives already in hand, expression flat and bored. Ty Lee bounced up beside her like this was a festival performance.

Ty Lee grinned. “Hi, Zuko! You made friends!”

Her gaze flicked over Aang, Katara, Sokka, and Toph, eyes bright. “They look fun.”

Katara’s water snapped toward her like an answer.

Ty Lee flipped off the awning, twisting effortlessly between the ribbons of water, landing in front of Katara with a skidding slide. “Whoa! Nice control,” she chirped. “You must work out.”

Then she lunged—fast.

Katara brought her water up in a shield, barely keeping Ty Lee’s hands away from her chi points, every block a near-miss.

“Toph!” Katara called. “A little help?”

Toph stomped.

The stone under Ty Lee’s feet rolled, trying to trap her ankles. Ty Lee giggled and used the moving rock as a springboard, flipping backward out of the trap and landing next to Sokka instead.

“Hi!” she said, cheerful.

Sokka yelped and swung his boomerang at her.

She ducked it, then jabbed lightly at his arm—too fast.

His fingers went numb.

“Hey—HEY!” Sokka shouted, staring at his now-useless boomerang hand. “That’s cheating!”

Ty Lee winked. “That’s chi blocking.”

Toph snarled and sent a pillar of stone up under Ty Lee’s feet, finally catching her and flinging her back toward a wall. Ty Lee twisted, grabbed the edge of a windowsill, and swung herself onto a balcony, landing in a crouch.

“Okay, you’re good too,” she told Toph.

Meanwhile, Mai’s knives rained down like very bored meteors.

A blade zipped toward Aang’s head; a gust of wind flicked it aside. Another trio went for Iroh; he pivoted gracefully, tea-shop apron flaring as he redirected them with a swirl of steam from the kettle he’d insisted on bringing outside.

“Please be careful with the windows,” Iroh called politely, even as he used the kettle lid to deflect a flying spike.

Aang rode a small air scooter down from the roof, landing beside him. “You’re really still holding the tea?”

“A good host does not abandon his kettle,” Iroh replied, then flicked the lid in a sharp arc.

A burst of steam shot forward, blinding a Dai Li agent long enough for Toph to slam him into the street with a wave of earth.

Zuko and Azula had pulled the fight a little further down the street without meaning to—fire trading between them in bursts and arcs, blue against orange.

“You picked interesting company,” Azula said, stepping out of the way of a blast so casually it looked choreographed. “A tea server. A traitor bodyguard. The Avatar’s little fan club.”

She sent a lightning-fast jet of blue fire at Jet, testing.

Zuko shoved him out of the way and caught it on his arm, skidding back with a hiss of pain.

Jet swore. “Don’t do that again.”

“Don’t stand there again,” Zuko snapped back, shaking out his smoking sleeve.

Azula’s eyes glittered. “Oh, this is precious,” she purred. “You got yourself a devoted little protector. How sweet.”

Jet’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, eyes tracking her hands.

“Zuzu.” Azula’s voice turned almost soft. “You think standing with the Avatar will change what you are?”

Blue fire surged.

Zuko met it with a roar, sweat beading on his scarred brow.

“Watch your flank,” Jet snapped, and dove forward.

He slipped through the edge of the fire blast, coat smoking, and aimed a precise kick at Azula’s knee. She flowed around it, barely shifting her weight, and slapped a wall of blue fire down between them, forcing him back.

“Bodyguards,” Azula sighed, as if disappointed. “So clingy.”

Jet slid to a stop, lips pulling back in something that wasn’t really a smile. “You’re not touching him,” he said.

Azula’s gaze slid over him, evaluating. “And what will you do?” she asked. “Glare me to death?”

Zuko stepped up beside Jet, fire licking his fists. “We’ll start there,” he said.

On the other side of the street, Aang whipped up a funnel of wind that sent two Dai Li agents flying into a stack of barrels. Katara froze the spilled water under their feet, pinning them.

“We can’t fight all of them like this forever!” Aang called, dodging another volley of knives.

“We don’t have to,” Toph grunted, punching the ground again. “We just have to not die until we get OUT of the city.”

Sokka, shaking feeling back into his arm as the chi block slowly faded, yelled, “Newsflash! We’re surrounded!”

He wasn’t wrong. More Dai Li were sliding out of alleyways, scaling walls, dropping from rooftops. The street was becoming a stone cage.

Iroh’s eyes narrowed. “We must move,” he said. “Now.”

He looked at Aang. “There is a train tunnel three streets north,” he said quickly. “Toph can get us there—if we give her space.”

Aang nodded, jaw set. “Got it.”

He leapt up, staff spinning.

“Appa!” he called.

From above, Appa bellowed, swooping lower.

Azula heard the distinctive roar and her attention flicked up—just for a heartbeat.

Zuko didn’t miss it.

“Now!” he snapped.

He and Jet attacked together—Zuko with a sweeping blast of fire aimed high to force her to dodge, Jet low and fast, hook swords flashing.

Azula flipped back, blue fire flaring from her heels, landing lightly on the second-story balcony of a nearby building.

She smiled down at them like this was all a game. “You’re improving, Zuzu,” she said. “Shame you’re on the wrong side.”

She made a sharp gesture.

Dai Li agents surged forward, walls of stone rising between the Gaang and the tea shop, trying to separate them.

Toph stomped hard.

Cracks spiderwebbed through the stone, but the Dai Li kept rebuilding, hands glowing.

“I can’t keep this up all day!” Toph shouted.

“Don’t have to,” Jet called back. “Just long enough!”

He ducked a knife, grabbed Zuko’s sleeve, and pulled him toward the others.

Zuko burned a path through an earth wall, heat shimmering around him. Aang blasted the debris aside with a gust of wind.

They converged in the street’s center: Zuko, Jet, Aang, Katara, Sokka, Toph, and Iroh forming a rough circle, backs to each other, enemies closing in on all sides.

“This is bad,” Sokka said helpfully.

“This is fun,” Ty Lee called from a lamppost she’d somehow climbed.

Mai flicked another knife that Toph caught with a sudden rock column. “You say that about everything,” Mai replied, bored.

Azula raised one hand.

“Avatar!” she called, voice ringing. “Surrender now and I promise I’ll only hurt you a little.”

Aang’s grip tightened on his staff. “Yeah,” he said, “no thanks.”

Katara stepped closer to him, water swirling. “We’re not surrendering to you.”

Azula’s eyes slid over to Zuko. “What about you, dear brother?” she asked. “Come home now. I’ll even tell Father you helped catch the Avatar. He might almost be proud.”

Zuko’s stomach twisted. The old ache flared, sharp and ugly. For a heartbeat, the offer sat there—a poisoned fruit.

Jet’s shoulder brushed his.

“You don’t want that,” Jet said, low, only for Zuko. “Remember?”

Zuko inhaled once, harsh and deliberate.

He looked up at Azula, and for the first time his answer was immediate.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

Azula’s smile thinned. “Disappointing,” she murmured. “But not unexpected.”

Her posture shifted.

Everything tightened.

Iroh’s voice cut through, sudden and sharp. “Aang!”

Aang looked over. Iroh’s eyes were steady, commanding in a way Aang had only ever seen in Bumi and a few others.

“Take them and go north,” Iroh said. “Toph will open the way. Do not stop.”

Aang swallowed. “What about you?”

Iroh smiled, a flash of the dragon general under the tea shop owner. “I will buy you time.”

Zuko’s head snapped around. “Uncle—”

Iroh’s hand settled briefly on his shoulder. “Where you go now matters,” he said quietly. “Choose well.”

Then he stepped forward, between their little circle and Azula, breath slowing, stance settling.

Azula’s eyes lit up. “Uncle,” she purred. “How… nostalgic.”

Iroh bowed his head a fraction. “Princess.”

Blue fire danced higher in her hand. “Are you really going to stand in my way for these… children?”

Iroh’s smile was small and sad. “If they are children, that is only because the world rushed them.”

Azula’s gaze flicked over their group, then back to him. “You’ve gotten sentimental.”

Iroh’s eyes hardened. “I’ve gotten wise.”

He shifted into a familiar stance—one Zuko had watched a thousand times, but never against her.

“Go,” Iroh said—no longer gentle, pure command.

Toph gritted her teeth, slammed both feet down, and punched the ground forward.

The street ahead buckled like a wave, stone rolling, upheaving, slamming into Dai Li agents and knocking them aside. A fissure opened that ran three streets north exactly where Iroh had said.

“There!” Aang yelled.

Appa swooped lower, massive and solid. Aang airbent himself and Sokka into the saddle. Katara water-whipped Ty Lee back into a fruit cart when the acrobat tried to grab Appa’s tail.

“Sorry!” Katara called over the crash. (She was not sorry.)

“Toph, up!” Aang yelled.

Toph stamped a quick ramp under herself and launched onto Appa’s back, grabbing the saddle edge.

“Let’s go!” she shouted.

Jet grabbed Zuko’s arm. “We’re not staying,” he said.

Zuko’s eyes were locked on Iroh, throat tight. “I can’t just—”

“You can,” Jet hissed. “He wants you alive more than he wants you noble. Move.”

Azula saw what they were doing.

“Oh no you don’t,” she snapped, whipping a massive stream of blue fire toward Appa.

A smaller gout of orange fire met it from below—Iroh’s—splitting the blast, sending it roaring off to the side where it scorched a line across a wall instead of a sky bison.

Azula’s eyes narrowed. “Rude.”

Iroh breathed out, shoulders squared. “I will not let you hurt them,” he said simply.

“Zuko!” Aang shouted from Appa’s back, reaching a hand down.

The choice was a knife.

Zuko’s heart felt like it was splitting in his chest.

Uncle, alone, standing against Azula and the Dai Li.

The Avatar, Appa, Jet, and the others, ready to bolt.

Jet stepped in front of Zuko, grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and dragged his face close.

“Live first,” Jet said, low and fierce. “Then save him. That’s the order. Move.”

Zuko’s breath hitched.

He shoved Jet away—hard—but it wasn’t rejection. It was momentum.

He ran.

He leapt.

Aang caught his forearm and hauled him into the saddle, muscles straining.

“Jet!” Zuko shouted, twisting, hand outstretched.

Jet sprinted and grabbed the saddle edge, hauling himself up with pure stubbornness as Appa’s paws left the ground.

Below them, Iroh stood his ground, blue and orange fire colliding around him as he fought Azula and a half-circle of Dai Li, every move precise and controlled.

Azula’s face was alight—not just with fire, but with the thrill of a real challenge.

“Come now, Uncle!” she called over the roar. “Imagine what Father will say when I deliver you both!”

Iroh moved like water and stone and fire together—redirecting, deflecting, never wasting a breath. “Your father will never be proud of what you destroy,” he said. “Only what you control.”

“Exactly,” Azula said, and smiled.

Appa’s great body heaved upward, wings beating hard. Wind roared around them.

Zuko twisted in the saddle, eyes glued to the fight below as the tea shop shrank.

“Uncle!” he shouted, voice breaking.

Iroh glanced up once, eyes meeting Zuko’s across the distance.

Pride. Love. Do not waste this.

Then he turned back to Azula’s next strike.

Jet grabbed Zuko’s shoulder, steady, grounding. “He’ll be fine,” Jet said, sounding like he desperately needed it to be true. “He’s Iroh.”

The city fell away beneath them—streets, walls, towers. Smoke from the fight curled up like a signal.

Behind them, Azula’s furious shout rose faintly, and a bolt of blue lightning split the sky, cracking toward them—

Aang wrenched the air, Toph bent a sudden stone pillar from a rooftop, and Katara flung a wall of water backward.

The lightning struck water, blasted rock, split the air with a deafening crack.

No one in the saddle breathed for a second.

Then Appa surged forward, out of range.

The fight left Ba Sing Se behind—for the moment.

In the sky, wind whipping past, Zuko clutched the saddle edge, staring back at the shrinking city.

His shoulders shook once.

Jet’s hand found his.

He didn’t pull away.

Katara watched them, face conflicted but resolute.

“We’re not done,” she said.

Aang nodded, eyes on the horizon. “No,” he agreed. “We’re just starting.”

Below, in a wrecked street and a half-burned tea shop, Iroh faced Azula and the Dai Li alone—with a calm he’d earned through decades of war, and a quiet hope that, this time, the children might build something better out of the ashes.

Chapter Text

The cave was just big enough for Appa.

Which meant it felt too small for everything else.

Appa’s bulk filled most of the entrance, his head resting on his paws, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. The damp stone muffled sound, turned every breath into a soft echo. The air smelled like wet rock and fur and smoke that clung to clothes and hair.

Outside, the wind howled along the mountainside, occasionally sending a spray of fine snow past the cave mouth.

Inside, the Gaang and their two newest… not-quite-friends sat in an uneasy semi-circle around a small fire Toph had bullied out of the rock and Zuko had lit with a flick of his fingers.

Nobody said anything for a while.

Aang sat with his back against Appa’s side, fingers buried in thick fur like he still didn’t quite believe his bison was real. Every now and then Appa let out a low rumble and Aang would murmur something soft in return.

Katara sat nearby, knees hugged to her chest, watching the fire and absolutely not looking at Zuko unless she had to.

Sokka was off to the side, sharpening his boomerang with a little more force than necessary. Every scrape of stone on metal sounded like punctuation for the things he wasn’t saying.

Toph sprawled on a flat, warm rock she’d raised herself, chin in her palm. Her bare feet rested on the floor, feeling every shift in the cave.

Zuko sat close to the fire, arms wrapped around his knees, wrists resting on top. He’d taken off his outer coat, but the shadows still clung to him; the cave light picked out the worn edges on his clothes, the tension in his back.

Jet was at the cave mouth, half in shadow, half outlined by the faint gray light from outside. He leaned against the rock wall, hood down, watching the sky through the narrow gap above Appa’s horns. The posture said casual; the line of his shoulders said coiled.

Eventually, Sokka couldn’t stand the silence.

“So,” he said, drawl sharp. “This is cozy.”

Toph snorted. “For a cramped hole in a mountain full of enemies? Yeah. Super cozy.”

Katara shot Sokka a look. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” Sokka said, gesturing with his boomerang. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. We’re stuck in a cave with Zuko and his attack boyfriend.”

Jet choked. Zuko about swallowed his own tongue.

Aang looked between them, confused. “Attack… what?”

Sokka waved a hand vaguely at Jet. “You know. Always three inches away from Zuko, throws himself in front of fire, calls him ‘my lord.’ It’s a whole thing.”

Jet’s ears flushed. “That’s not—”

“Don’t say ‘my duty,’” Sokka warned. “If you say ‘my duty’ I’m flipping a coin to decide which of you I push off the mountain first.”

Toph grinned, delighted. “I like you again.”

Jet opened his mouth, closed it, and settled for crossing his arms. “I protect him,” he said. “That’s all.”

“That’s a lot, actually,” Sokka muttered.

Zuko glared into the fire. “Can we not do this right now?”

Katara’s gaze flicked up, sharp. “You mean discuss the fact that you and your sister turned Ba Sing Se into a war zone in one afternoon? Sure. Let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about the weather.”

Zuko’s shoulders hunched. “I didn’t—”

“You were there,” Katara snapped.

Aang flinched slightly. “Katara…”

“No, Aang,” she said, anger bubbling. “We trusted him once.” Her eyes cut to Jet. “Trusted both of them. And now look where we are.”

Toph shifted, feeling the tension spike in the rock like a heartbeat. “She’s not wrong,” she said. “You two bring a lot of trouble.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Azula brings trouble. I’m just—”

“Bad at avoiding her?” Sokka suggested.

Zuko rounded on him. “Do you know what happens when you avoid Azula? She circles and circles until she finds the weakest thing near you and sets it on fire.”

“Sounds familiar,” Katara said tightly.

Zuko flinched again. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

For once, Jet stepped in before the fight could get worse.

“You’re not wrong to be angry,” he said to Katara and Sokka, voice quiet and even. “We lied. I lied. You let me walk with you. Sleep near you. Watch your backs.”

“You reported on us,” Katara said, fury and hurt tangled.

Jet didn’t deny it. “I did.”

Sokka’s eyes flashed. “Wow, thanks for confirming it.”

Jet looked down at his hands. “I didn’t tell him everything,” he said.

Katara’s lips thinned. “But you told him enough.”

“Yes,” Jet said simply.

The straightforward admission threw her more than any excuse would have. She shut her mouth with a snap and looked away, breathing hard.

Aang watched Jet, brow furrowed. “Why did you help us find Appa?” he asked quietly. “If… all of that.”

Jet lifted his gaze to Aang’s, steady. “Because they took something from you they had no right to take,” he said. “Because I know what that feels like.”

His eyes flicked briefly to Zuko, then away.

“And,” Jet added, “because having the Avatar chained in Long Feng’s basement is worse than having him flying around where we can actually see him.”

“Wow,” Sokka said. “I feel so reassured.”

Toph shrugged. “He’s not lying.”

“That doesn’t make me like it,” Sokka shot back.

Katara looked at Zuko, anger settling into something colder. “And you,” she said. “You say you were wrong. You say you want to help. Why should we believe you? Because your uncle tells you to?”

Zuko’s fingers dug into his knees. “Because I saw Azula in that city,” he said, voice low. “Because she’ll turn Ba Sing Se into a nightmare and call it order. Because I don’t want to be on her side anymore.”

“You were never on her side,” Aang said softly. “You were on your father’s.”

“Same difference,” Zuko snapped—and then winced, because that hurt more than he’d expected.

Jet’s hand twitched like he wanted to touch his arm and stopped himself.

Katara’s expression softened for half a second. “You don’t have to be,” she said. “On his side.”

Zuko laughed once, bitter. “You say that like it’s just… a choice.”

“It is,” Katara said.

“For you,” Zuko shot back. “For me, it’s… every lesson. Every scar. Every nightmare. It’s everything I was told I’d be. I can’t just decide I’m… someone else.”

The cave went quiet.

Aang shifted closer to Appa, thinking. “I didn’t ask to be the Avatar,” he said quietly. “But I still have to decide what kind of Avatar I’m going to be.”

Zuko glanced at him, surprised.

Aang gave a small, wry smile. “I ran away,” he admitted. “I left the Air Temple because I was scared. Because they were going to take me away from Monk Gyatso and make me into something I wasn’t ready to be.”

Katara and Sokka both looked at him, but stayed silent. They’d heard parts of this before—not like this.

“I ended up freezing myself in an iceberg for a hundred years,” Aang went on. “That was a bad decision. A really, really bad decision. It hurt a lot of people.” He looked down at his hands. “But I still have to be the Avatar now. I just… have to try to be a better one.”

Zuko watched him, expression complicated. “And you think I can just… decide to be a better prince?”

Aang’s gaze lifted. “No,” he said. “I think you can decide to not be your father.”

That hit something deep enough that Zuko’s breath stuttered.

Jet shifted his weight, watching Zuko’s face, seeing the way those words landed.

Katara exhaled, some of the fury draining out. “It’s not about trusting you right away,” she said. “It’s about… giving the world a chance to be better if you’re not trying to kill us.”

“That’s a low bar,” Sokka muttered.

Toph grinned. “You love a low bar. Easier to trip over.”

Sokka glared. “Are you trying to help?”

“Absolutely not,” Toph said cheerfully.

Appa rumbled, snorting warm air over Aang’s hair.

The tension in the cave eased a fraction.

Zuko stared at the fire, shoulders slowly lowering from around his ears. “Iroh always wanted me to have… a new life,” he said. “Here. In the Earth Kingdom. Serving tea.”

Katara nodded once. “He told us.”

Zuko’s mouth twisted. “Of course he did.”

Jet spoke up, quieter. “He was right,” he said. “You were happy there. For a while.”

Zuko shot him a look. “I was less miserable.”

Jet’s gaze softened. “For you, that’s practically ecstatic.”

Sokka snorted despite himself.

Katara’s lips twitched, then pressed flat again. “We still have to decide what to do about you two.”

Toph raised a hand. “I vote we put them on night watch and see if they run away.”

Jet arched a brow. “Night watch is my default state.”

“Great,” Toph said. “Then you’ll be excellent at it.”

Aang frowned, thinking. “We have to go back,” he said. “To Ba Sing Se. Azula’s going to take over the city. We can’t just leave people there.”

“Agreed,” Katara said.

“Disagree,” Sokka said immediately. “Very much disagree.”

Toph shrugged. “I mean, I like fighting. But a whole brainwashing rock cop city? That’s a lot.”

“We can’t let Azula win,” Aang said, voice gaining strength. “If she controls Ba Sing Se, the Earth Kingdom loses its strongest city. Everyone else will fall.”

Zuko stared at the cave wall, jaw tight. “She’s probably already taken it,” he said. “She moves fast. She’ll use the Dai Li, or replace them.”

Jet nodded grimly. “I saw her near their leader. She’s not there to negotiate. She’s there to own.”

“So we go back,” Aang repeated. “But… smarter. Stronger.”

Sokka groaned. “And with Zuko.”

“And Jet,” Toph added. “Two firebenders for the price of one. And a knife boy.”

Jet frowned. “Knife boy?”

“You throw things,” Toph said. “It’s in the job description.”

Katara looked at Zuko, eyes steady. “If we’re doing this,” she said, “then you’re not in charge. Aang is. And if you try to capture him again—if you even think about turning on us—”

Zuko met her gaze. “You’ll kill me,” he said.

Her jaw clenched. “I’ll stop you,” she said. “Whatever it takes.”

Zuko held her eyes for another beat, then nodded once. “Fair.”

Jet bristled. “If you’re killing him, you go through me first.”

Sokka rubbed his temples. “Wow, this just keeps getting better.”

Toph kicked a small rock toward Zuko. It tapped his boot.

“Hey, Prince,” she said.

Zuko looked at her, wary. “What.”

“You really on our side?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, then stopped.

Jet watched him. Aang, Katara, Sokka watched him.

Zuko looked at his hands, the firelight making the bandages glow orange.

“I don’t know what my ‘side’ is anymore,” he said slowly. “I know I don’t want Azula to win. I know I don’t want my father’s throne if it means becoming him. I know I don’t want… what I was.”

He glanced up, eyes meeting Aang’s.

“And I know I’m tired of chasing you,” he said. “I’d rather… help you stop her.”

Aang searched his face, then nodded, small but real. “Okay.”

Katara breathed out through her nose. “This is a bad idea,” she muttered.

Sokka pointed at Zuko and Jet. “You sleep over there,” he said, indicating a patch of cave wall away from the group. “If either of you moves weird in the night, Toph drops a rock on you.”

Toph grinned. “Gladly.”

Jet raised his hands. “Fine by me.”

Zuko gave Sokka a dry look. “We don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Exactly,” Sokka said. “That’s the problem.”

They started to settle in—the quiet, clumsy choreography of making a temporary home in a hostile place.

Katara shaped water into a thin curtain at the cave mouth to keep some of the cold out. Aang tucked a blanket over Appa’s back, murmuring softly. Sokka arranged their supplies, muttering to himself about rationing. Toph listened to the mountain, feeling for any Dai Li vibrations nearby.

Zuko and Jet claimed their assigned patch of wall. Jet slid down it, stretching his legs out, back to stone. Zuko sat beside him, maybe a little closer than necessary, knees drawn up again.

“You okay?” Jet murmured, low enough that only Zuko could hear over the crackle of the fire.

“No,” Zuko said honestly. “But I’m not worse.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “High praise.”

They sat in silence for a bit, listening to the others’ voices blend with the fire.

After a while, Zuko spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.

“She told me I could choose,” he said. “Katara. Aang. Iroh. You. Jin.” His throat tightened on that name. “Everyone keeps saying it’s a choice.”

Jet turned his head slightly, watching him.

“It is,” Jet said. “But choices feel harder when no one ever taught you how.”

Zuko huffed. “They taught me how to choose.”

“No,” Jet said quietly. “They taught you how to obey.”

Zuko looked away, jaw tight.

Jet nudged his shoulder, just a little. “You chose today,” he said. “You left the city. You got on Appa instead of staying to burn for your father or die for your sister.”

“That’s not heroic,” Zuko muttered. “That’s selfish.”

“It’s survival,” Jet said. “And maybe the first step.”

Zuko grimaced. “You sound like my uncle.”

Jet smiled, small. “He gets some things right.”

Across the cave, Toph lifted her head slightly, listening to the way their voices changed the vibrations. She smirked to herself and turned over on her stone bed, giving them the illusion of privacy.

Aang watched them too for a second, thoughtful, then leaned back against Appa and let his eyes drift closed.

Katara’s gaze softened as she looked at Aang resting, then slid—briefly, reluctantly—to Zuko and Jet.

She saw Zuko’s hunched shoulders, Jet’s quiet vigilance, the way they both looked like they were expecting the cave itself to judge them.

She sighed and looked away, pulling her blanket tighter.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she said into the firelight, mostly to herself.

Zuko heard anyway. “I know,” he said.

Jet’s hand brushed his knuckles, a ghost of contact, hidden by the way they both sat.

Outside, the wind howled past the cave mouth, shaking snow from the ledges.

Inside, for the first time in a long time, the Avatar and the exiled prince and the boy who’d chosen him shared the same fragile shelter, the same flickering light.

The mountain listened.

The war went on.

And somewhere in Ba Sing Se, under a different sky, Azula smiled and set her pieces in place—unaware, for now, that far above her walls, a strange alliance had begun to form in the cold.

The cave went quieter as the night wore on.

Not peaceful—just muffled. The fire burned low. Appa’s slow breathing filled the hollow like a heartbeat. Outside, wind worried at the mouth of the cave, dragging cold air in thin fingers across the stone.

Zuko couldn’t sleep.

He lay on his side with his back to the wall and his eyes open, watching the fire shrink down to coals. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Iroh in the street—tea apron, steady stance, blue flame snapping toward him like lightning.

Go, Iroh had said.

Zuko had gone.

The guilt sat in his ribs like a stone.

Next to him, Jet was still too—too awake to be asleep, too still to be relaxed. One arm folded behind his head, the other resting near Zuko’s hand like it had a mind of its own.

Zuko stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, until he couldn’t stand the inside of his own head anymore.

He sat up.

The movement was quiet, but in the cave, quiet didn’t exist. Katara’s eyes opened immediately. Sokka made a suspicious noise in his blanket burrito. Toph’s lips curved faintly without her opening her eyes.

Jet sat up too, instant. Alert like a switch had been flipped. “What.”

Zuko didn’t answer at first. He pushed himself to his feet, shoulders tight, and looked toward the cave mouth where the night lived.

“I’m going back,” he said.

Katara’s head snapped up. “What?”

Aang blinked sleep from his eyes, sitting up against Appa’s side. “Zuko—?”

Sokka’s voice was thick with sleep and outrage. “Oh, perfect. He’s leaving. That’s—honestly, that’s on brand.”

Toph rolled onto her back, hands behind her head. “He’s not leaving,” she said, voice pleased. “He’s going back. Different flavor of bad decision.”

Zuko ignored all of them. His eyes were on the dark outside like he could see Ba Sing Se’s walls through the mountain.

“Iroh is still there,” he said, voice low. “With Azula. With the Dai Li.”

Aang’s face tightened. “We can’t just—go back into the city. Not right now.”

“I can,” Zuko snapped, then forced himself to breathe. “I won’t leave him.”

Katara stood, water skin already in hand. “And you think running straight into Azula is going to save him?”

“It’s going to do more than sitting here,” Zuko shot back.

Jet rose fully, stepping into Zuko’s path without thinking. “No.”

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “Move.”

Jet didn’t. His voice dropped into that steady, dangerous calm. “You go back alone, you die.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “That’s my problem.”

“It becomes my problem when you make it stupid,” Jet said sharply.

Zuko stepped closer, almost chest to chest. “Iroh is my uncle.”

Jet’s gaze didn’t waver. “Iroh chose to hold the line so you could live. Don’t waste it.”

Zuko’s hands clenched at his sides. “I’m not wasting anything. I’m fixing it.”

Toph sat up, listening, expression turning serious in that blunt way she got when the ground felt like it was about to crack. “He’s going to go,” she said to the others. “He already decided.”

Aang stood, rubbing his eyes, voice urgent. “Zuko, we’ll help. Just—wait until morning. We can make a plan.”

Zuko’s laugh was short and bitter. “Azula doesn’t wait until morning.”

Katara’s voice went tight. “Neither should you. Not without us.”

Zuko shook his head once. “No. You have Appa. You have each other. You have the mission.” His throat tightened, and his voice got rougher. “I have Iroh.”

Jet’s expression flickered—something sharp, something almost pained—before the mask slammed back into place. “Then I’m coming.”

Zuko turned on him. “No.”

Jet blinked, like he hadn’t expected resistance. “Zuko—”

Zuko’s voice cut like a blade. “I’m ordering you.”

The cave went very still.

Even Sokka shut up.

Jet’s posture shifted on instinct—palace training trying to rise, trying to obey. His jaw clenched hard enough to show the muscle jumping in his cheek.

Zuko looked at him, eyes bright with fury and fear. “Stay here,” Zuko said, voice low and shaking. “Stay with them. Protect them. Protect Appa.”

Jet’s hands flexed at his sides like he was resisting the urge to grab Zuko and physically stop him. “That’s not—”

“It is,” Zuko snapped. “It’s an order.”

Jet’s voice dropped, strained. “Don’t do this.”

Zuko swallowed, and for a second the prince-voice cracked and what came through was just a boy who couldn’t breathe around the idea of leaving Iroh behind.

“I can’t—” Zuko started, then clenched his jaw. “I’m going back.”

Jet stepped closer, eyes hard. “Then I go with you.”

Zuko’s scar twitched. His hands shook. And then—because it was the only way he knew to make the world obey when it wouldn’t—

he reached for the old shape of authority like armor.

“Jet,” Zuko said, and the way he said the name snapped the air tight. “Stay.”

Jet froze.

His shoulders went rigid. His eyes widened slightly, like some part of him had just been yanked backward through years of corridors and rules and punishment.

Zuko forced the next words out through a throat that felt like it was closing. “That’s my command.”

Jet’s breath caught. For a moment he looked like he might break—like he might choose disobedience anyway and damn the consequences.

Toph’s voice cut in, almost gentle for her. “He means it,” she said. “And you want to say no so bad it hurts.”

Jet didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on Zuko, locked like a vow.

Slowly—painfully—he bowed his head a fraction.

“Yes,” Jet said, voice rough and formal. “My lord.”

Zuko flinched at the words like they burned.

Katara’s expression twisted with something complicated—anger, sympathy, dread—because she could hear it now too: the way obedience could be a cage.

Aang swallowed. “Zuko—please—”

Zuko didn’t look at them. If he looked at them, he might hesitate. And hesitation was how Azula won.

He turned to Jet one last time, voice low, almost pleading underneath the command. “Keep them safe,” he said.

Jet’s jaw clenched. “Always,” he whispered.

Zuko nodded once, hard, and headed for the cave mouth.

Katara took a step after him—then stopped, like she didn’t know whether to restrain him or respect the fact that this wasn’t about the Avatar or the war. This was about family.

Sokka muttered, “This is the worst field trip.”

Toph snorted, but her brow was furrowed. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

Aang’s voice was small. “Or save him.”

Zuko paused at the threshold, backlit by moonlight and snow, a silhouette of sharp angles and stubborn grief.

He didn’t turn around.

“I’ll be back,” he said, voice tight.

Then he stepped out into the night and disappeared down the mountain path toward a city full of blue fire.

Inside the cave, the silence left behind was heavy and wrong.

Jet stood perfectly still for three full breaths.

Then his hands curled into fists at his sides so hard his knuckles went white.

Katara watched him, wary. “You’re not going to follow.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a test.

Jet’s voice came out like gravel. “I can’t.”

Toph tilted her head. “Because he ordered you.”

Jet’s throat worked. “Because I promised,” he said, and there was something raw in it that didn’t sound like palace training at all. “Because if I break his order, he’ll never trust me again.”

Sokka scoffed. “You’re worried about trust right now?”

Jet’s eyes flicked up, sharp enough to cut. “I’m worried about him dying,” he said flatly. “And I’m worried that if I chase him, we all die. Including the Avatar. Including Appa. Including the girl he cares about who’s still in that city.”

That shut Sokka up.

Aang looked toward the cave mouth, jaw trembling. “We should go after him.”

Katara shook her head slowly, pain in her eyes. “Not with Appa this tired,” she whispered. “Not without a plan. Not blind.”

Toph listened to the mountain, to Zuko’s footsteps fading into distance, then to Jet’s heartbeat—too fast, too angry.

“He’s gone,” Toph said softly. “For now.”

Jet stared out into the dark so hard it looked like he could drag Zuko back with his eyes.

Then he turned his back on the cave mouth—an act of sheer will—and sank down against the wall again, right where Zuko had been.

He didn’t relax. He didn’t sleep.

He just sat there, silent and furious and loyal as a blade left on a table, waiting for the sound of Zuko’s return—because obeying the order was agony, and breaking it would be worse.

Chapter Text

Two days in the cave felt like two months.

They slept in shifts because nobody really slept. Appa dozed and woke, snorted and shifted. Aang meditated and then failed at meditating and just leaned on Appa instead. Katara paced. Sokka did “planning,” which mostly meant talking to himself and drawing increasingly unhinged maps in the dirt. Toph lay with her ear pressed to the stone, listening for footsteps that never came.

Jet barely left the cave mouth.

He sat just outside the glow of the fire, back to the wall, watching the path disappear into the snow and rock. The others rotated in and out, but Jet stayed. Sometimes he’d stand and walk a little way down the trail, just far enough that the wind cut his face and reminded him he was still here and not running after Zuko. Then he’d come back, jaw clenched, eyes flinty.

The order sat in him like a brand.

Stay. Keep them safe.

Every time his muscles coiled to move, the command flipped in his head like a switch: Don’t. You told him you'd obey. He finally believed you. Don’t break it.

On the morning of the third day, Toph was the first to feel it.

She was lying half-dozing, feet on the rock, letting the mountain’s steady heartbeat lull her into the closest thing to rest she got these days. Outside, the wind had eased. The cave was a little warmer; the fire was just embers.

Then—there. A tremor on the path.

Two sets of feet. Heavy. One dragging.

Toph’s eyes snapped open. “Someone’s coming,” she said, already pushing herself up.

Sokka jolted awake. “Dai Li?”

Toph frowned, concentrating. “No. One’s… solid. Familiar. Bad posture.” Her mouth curled. “The other is tired. Old, but strong. And also familiar.”

Aang scrambled to his feet, heart jumping. “Zuko?”

Jet was already moving.

He didn’t wait for confirmation. He sprinted out of the cave mouth into the gray morning, boots skidding on the icy path, eyes raking the trail below.

There.

Two figures on the narrow ledge: one tall and hunched, one broad-shouldered but leaning, both moving like they’d run out of strength and were now running on pure stubbornness.

Zuko looked thinner than he had two days ago. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. His coat was ripped at the shoulder, bandages visible underneath. There was dried blood along his hairline and a fresh burn on the back of one hand.

Iroh walked beside him, one arm around his nephew’s back, one hand gripping a staff he definitely hadn’t owned when they’d parted. His hair was more askew than usual, and there was a limp in his step, but his eyes were bright and watchful.

“Zuko!” Jet shouted, voice cracking.

Zuko’s head snapped up.

For a heartbeat, he just stared—like his brain was double-checking the shape in front of him.

Then he exhaled, shaky, and something in his shoulders loosened. “Jet,” he called back, voice rough.

Jet didn’t wait for them to reach him. He ran down the path, footing sure even on the narrow ledge, and met them halfway on a slightly wider patch of rock.

Up close, they both looked worse.

Zuko’s hands were trembling from cold and fatigue. Iroh’s face was lined deeper than Jet remembered, and there were bruises just visible under the edge of his collar.

Jet skidded to a stop in front of them, chest heaving.

For half a second he just stared, taking inventory—alive, upright, breathing—like counting facts might anchor him.

Then he grabbed Zuko by the front of his coat and shook him.

“Two days,” Jet snapped, voice raw. “Two days, no sign, no signal, nothing. Do you have any idea—”

His voice broke.

Zuko blinked, dazed from the trip and the scolding. “I told you to stay,” he rasped, because his brain was still catching up.

“Yeah, you did,” Jet snarled. “You also forgot the part where you’re not allowed to die, you absolute—”

He cut himself off, breath hitching. Then, before Zuko could react, Jet yanked him forward into a hug so tight it knocked the air out of both of them.

Zuko froze, startled—and then his body remembered how tired it was and slumped into it, forehead pressing against Jet’s shoulder.

For a moment, everything went quiet except for their breathing and the wind.

Jet’s voice dropped to a whisper only Zuko could hear. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he said. “If you’re going to be stupid, you’re taking me with you.”

Zuko huffed a hoarse, exhausted laugh into his coat. “That’s not how orders work.”

“Too bad,” Jet muttered. “I quit.”

Iroh watched them with eyes that glistened, a soft, weary smile tugging at his mouth.

“Come,” he said mildly after a long moment. “Let us get inside before my old bones freeze to the stone.”

Jet pulled back, cleared his throat a little too roughly, and looped Zuko’s arm over his shoulders without asking. “C’mon, your highness,” he said. “You look like you lost a fight with a boulder.”

“I won,” Zuko muttered on reflex.

“Sure you did,” Jet said. “We’ll forge the victory statue later.”

They reached the cave mouth. Appa’s head lifted, nostrils flaring. He rumbled low in recognition and faint wariness.

Aang stood just inside, staff in hand, eyes wide.

When Zuko and Iroh stepped into the cave, the air seemed to shrink and expand at the same time.

Katara’s first reaction was relief—sharp and immediate, seeing Iroh alive, Zuko on his feet.

Her second reaction was anger all over again.

“What happened?” she demanded.

Iroh bowed slightly, leaning a bit on his staff. “It is good to see you all again,” he said. “And to meet you properly, Avatar Aang.”

Aang blinked. “We… met. A little. At the North Pole.”

Iroh smiled, tired. “Then perhaps now we can do so with less… fire.”

Sokka squinted. “You look like you got run over by a rhino.”

“Several,” Iroh said cheerfully. “And a train.”

Zuko sank down by the nearest wall as Jet guided him there, legs almost giving. The warmth of the cave hit him like a wave after the mountain wind.

Aang hovered, torn between questions. “Did you get hurt?” he asked Iroh. “Is Ba Sing Se—?”

“Under new management,” Iroh said, eyes dimming. “Azula was… efficient.”

Katara’s jaw clenched. “So she took the city.”

“Yes,” Iroh said simply. “The Earth King is a figurehead. The Dai Li serve her now.”

Sokka groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Fantastic. Just… fantastic. We flee one conquered city and invite its conquerors along for the ride.”

Jet shot him a look. “We didn’t invite Azula.”

Zuko pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. “She’s using the war as theater,” he muttered. “She’ll spin it as the Fire Nation bringing stability. People will believe it. They always do. At first.”

Toph listened to the way Zuko’s voice scraped over the words. “You saw her,” she said.

“Saw her?” Zuko huffed, weak. “We practically danced.”

Iroh settled himself closer to the fire, careful with his bruises. “Azula is… very pleased with herself,” he said. “But her control is not yet complete. That is why we had an opportunity to leave.”

“How did you escape?” Katara asked, skeptical and grudgingly curious.

Iroh’s eyes twinkled faintly. “An old friend wore a white lotus tile on his belt,” he said. “And remembered an old debt. The walls of Ba Sing Se have many tunnels—not all of them on Long Feng’s maps.”

Toph’s ears perked. “Someone helped you.”

“Several someones,” Iroh said. “There is more resistance in the city than Azula realizes. Seeds in the cracks.”

Zuko’s lips twitched. “And Uncle has friends everywhere.”

“What can I say?” Iroh said. “Tea makes many allies.”

Aang exhaled, shoulders slumping, then straightened. “So Ba Sing Se is lost,” he said quietly.

“For now,” Iroh said. “The war will not be won or lost in one city, no matter how large its walls.”

Katara folded her arms, still watching Zuko. “And you,” she said. “You just walked in and out of Azula’s city?”

Zuko gave a humorless laugh. “I didn’t exactly stroll.”

“He did very well,” Iroh said, tone mild but with iron underneath. “He snuck into the inner ring, through the old servants’ passages. He reached the holding cells. He faced his sister again.”

“And?” Sokka pressed.

Zuko’s eyes were half-closed, voice worn. “She taunted. I yelled. We fought. She threw blue fire.” He flexed his burned hand. “I… didn’t die.”

Iroh’s gaze softened. “He also chose not to stay when she offered him his ‘honor’ back,” he said quietly. “That is no small thing.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “She’s not welcome in my head anymore.”

Jet’s hand, resting near Zuko’s on the ground, curled slightly, like the words hit him too.

Katara’s expression shifted—less anger now, more wary respect layered over hurt. “You’re sure she doesn’t know you’re with us?”

Zuko shook his head. “She knows I left with someone,” he said. “She doesn’t know where. Or who. Yet.”

Sokka threw his hands up. “Oh, good. A ticking time bomb.”

Aang moved closer to Iroh, awe and something like guilt warring on his face. “You stayed behind for us,” he said. “In the city.”

Iroh smiled, worn but kind. “I stayed because my nephew needed time,” he said. “You benefited. That is all.”

Toph listened to the way the old man’s voice resonated in the stone—steady, even now. “He believes that,” she told the others. “He’s not… fishing for thanks.”

Katara sighed, tension bleeding out a little. “Well, he should get some anyway,” she muttered.

Sokka eyed Zuko, then Iroh, then Jet. “So what now?” he asked, breaking the moment. “We can’t go back to Ba Sing Se. Azula’s there. The Dai Li are there. The cabbage guy’s probably moved on anyway.”

Aang looked at Iroh, then at Zuko. “The war’s still happening,” he said. “We still have to stop the Fire Lord.”

Zuko’s gaze lifted, meeting Aang’s. “So do I,” he said quietly.

Jet snorted. “Told you Azula was worse.”

Iroh exhaled, long and thoughtful. “You have lost a city,” he said, “but gained a sky bison.” His eyes crinkled. “And perhaps… an extra firebender or two.”

Katara gave him a pointed look. “Temporary firebenders.”

Iroh smiled. “Of course.”

Aang studied Zuko for a long moment—the exhaustion, the burns, the way he was still sitting upright even though his body wanted to collapse.

Finally, Aang stepped closer and held out a hand.

“For now,” Aang said, “we work together. Until Azula is stopped. Until the war is over.”

Zuko blinked at the hand like it was a weapon he wasn’t sure how to wield.

Jet nudged his shoulder. “Take it,” he murmured.

Zuko hesitated one more breath.

Then he reached out and gripped Aang’s forearm.

The contact was brief, awkward, not remotely ceremonial.

But it was real.

Katara watched with guarded eyes. Sokka pinched the bridge of his nose like this would give him permanent stress lines. Toph grinned, baring her teeth. Jet let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Iroh’s eyes glistened again.

“Good,” the old general said softly. “Very good.”

Zuko let go and sagged back against the wall, utterly spent. His eyes slid half-shut.

“We’re going to talk more about you ordering me to stay,” Jet muttered, low.

Zuko made a small, exhausted sound that might have been a laugh. “Later,” he mumbled.

Jet huffed. “Count on it.”

As Zuko drifted toward sleep right there on the cave floor, Jet stayed where he was, shoulder pressed lightly against his, eyes on the cave mouth.

Outside, the wind shifted.

Somewhere far beyond the mountains, Ba Sing Se lay under new rule. Azula sat on a borrowed throne. The Dai Li enforced a new lie.

Inside the cave, under rough stone and with a single tired fire for warmth, an uncle, a prince, a rebel, and the Avatar’s ragtag family huddled together and began—truly—to plan a different end to the war.

The cave changed after Zuko came back with Iroh.

Not because the mountain got warmer or the war got farther away—nothing outside softened—but because the shape of the group shifted. The tension didn’t vanish, it just rearranged itself into something that could… breathe.

Zuko woke up hours later with his head against the rock and Jet’s coat thrown over him without permission. He pretended he didn’t notice. Jet pretended he didn’t care. Iroh pretended he didn’t see either of them pretending.

By the time the fire was fed and Appa had shifted into a more comfortable sprawl, Iroh had already started turning the cave into a camp the way only he could: quietly, practically, like order was a kind of kindness.

“Tea,” Iroh announced, as if it were a solution to every problem. Which, in his world, it usually was.

Sokka eyed the kettle like it might explode. “Do we even have tea leaves?”

Iroh’s smile was deeply smug. “I have tea leaves.”

Toph’s head tilted. “You carry tea leaves with you everywhere?”

“A wise man carries what he needs,” Iroh said.

Toph grinned. “I like this guy.”

Katara rolled her eyes, but she didn’t argue. She was too busy re-wrapping a strip of cloth around Iroh’s bruised shoulder, hands gentle despite her stubborn frown.

“This is going to hurt,” she warned.

“I have endured worse,” Iroh said warmly. “For example: Sokka’s skepticism.”

“Hey,” Sokka protested. “My skepticism has kept us alive!”

“It has also prevented you from enjoying many pleasant moments,” Iroh replied.

Aang sat cross-legged near Appa, watching like he couldn’t decide if this was comforting or surreal. “You’re really… making tea in a cave,” he said.

Zuko, still groggy, pushed himself upright. “It’s not like we can cook a banquet,” he muttered.

Iroh’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, but we can still take pride in simple things.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened—automatic resistance—and then he caught himself. He exhaled through his nose and reached for the kettle.

“I’ll do it,” Zuko said.

Everyone looked at him.

Zuko pretended not to notice, focusing on the routine like it was a shield: heat the water, measure leaves, steep. His hands moved with the practiced familiarity of the tea shop.

Jet watched him from the edge of the group, silent. The moment Zuko started working, the tension in Jet’s shoulders eased by a fraction—as if watching Zuko do something ordinary proved he was real and not a ghost returned from Ba Sing Se.

Katara’s eyes tracked Zuko, wary but curious. “You know how to do that,” she said, almost accusing.

Zuko didn’t look up. “I worked in a tea shop.”

Sokka snorted. “Yeah, we heard.”

Toph leaned forward slightly, nose twitching. “Smells good,” she declared. “If you poison me, I’ll know.”

“I’m not poisoning you,” Zuko muttered.

Toph grinned wider. “See? He’s already part of the group. We threatened him and he got annoyed.”

Aang’s mouth twitched. “Toph…”

Zuko poured the first cup and handed it to Iroh without thinking. It was a reflex—like in the shop, like it had always been.

Iroh accepted it with a soft, pleased hum. “Thank you, nephew.”

Zuko’s ears warmed. He poured the next cup, then hesitated—eyes flicking over the others.

It felt… strange. Offering something to people he’d tried to hurt.

Katara’s gaze met his, steady and challenging.

Zuko swallowed and held a cup out anyway.

Katara stared at it like it might bite.

Sokka stared at it like it might be a trap.

Toph reached across both of them and snatched it out of Zuko’s hand. “Mine,” she said, and took a sip.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Okay,” she admitted. “That’s really good.”

Sokka groaned. “Traitor.”

Toph shrugged. “I have taste.”

Aang accepted a cup carefully when Zuko offered it, like the gesture itself mattered. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Zuko nodded, stiff. “Yeah.”

Sokka took his last, still suspicious, and sniffed it dramatically. “If I die, I’m haunting all of you.”

Iroh sipped his tea and sighed happily. “If you die, Sokka, I will still tell you to relax.”

Katara took a small sip despite herself.

She didn’t smile. But her shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Okay,” she admitted reluctantly. “It’s… decent.”

Zuko’s mouth twitched. “High praise.”

They sat with their cups in the dim cave light, steam rising like a fragile peace treaty.

For a while, the conversation was small and careful.

Aang told Iroh about finding Appa, voice still trembling with relief when he spoke the name.

Iroh listened with such genuine attention that Aang’s shoulders slowly dropped from around his ears. “A bond like that is rare,” Iroh said. “You are very fortunate.”

Sokka—unable to sit in tenderness for long—asked Iroh how he’d gotten out of Ba Sing Se.

Iroh gave him a story that was half truth and half misdirection: “There was a sewer. There were cabbages. There was a very angry woman with a ladle.”

Toph laughed so hard she snorted tea.

Katara asked about the White Lotus, eyes sharpening when Iroh mentioned it. Iroh only smiled and said, “Some doors open when you knock with the right symbol.”

Aang looked at Zuko once, hesitant. “So… you really worked there. As Lee.”

Zuko stared into his cup. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I liked it.”

The admission hung in the air.

Sokka frowned. “You liked being a tea server?”

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “I liked… not being chased. Not being a prince. Not being… hunted.”

Toph’s head tilted. “You liked being normal.”

Zuko flinched. “Normal isn’t a thing for me.”

Aang’s voice softened. “It could be. Someday.”

Zuko didn’t answer. He just poured himself another cup of tea like the act of doing something with his hands kept the cave from swallowing him.

Katara watched him for a long moment. Then—quietly—she asked, “Did you really tell Jin the truth?”

Zuko’s throat tightened. He nodded once.

Katara’s jaw clenched, but her voice was gentler than before. “That was… the right thing.”

Zuko blinked, surprised.

Sokka made a noise like he’d swallowed a bug. “Whoa. Katara complimented him. Mark it on the calendar.”

Katara shot him a look. “Shut up.”

Toph grinned into her tea. “This is great. We’re bonding.”

Sokka groaned. “We’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

Iroh smiled over his cup. “Sometimes survival is the first step toward bonding.”

Aang leaned back against Appa with a small, tired smile. For a few minutes, in a cave with enemies on every horizon, it almost felt like they were just… people.

Not symbols. Not targets. Not weapons.

Just a group sharing tea.

Later, when the fire had burned down again and the others had drifted toward sleep—Katara curled close to Aang like a shield, Sokka muttering himself into silence, Toph already half-dozing with her feet on the rock—Iroh hummed quietly as he tended to the kettle one more time.

Zuko stepped away from the group and toward the edge of the cave where the shadows were thicker.

Jet followed without being called.

He didn’t speak until they were out of earshot, near the cave mouth where cold air licked in and the world outside waited.

Zuko leaned against the wall, arms folded tight. “They hate me.”

Jet snorted softly. “They hate you less than they did.”

“That’s not comforting,” Zuko muttered.

Jet’s gaze softened. “It’s progress.”

Zuko stared out into the night. “I served them tea,” he said, like the words were ridiculous. “Like we were in the shop.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. And Toph almost smiled.”

“She’s always smiling,” Zuko said flatly.

Jet glanced at him. “Not at you.”

Zuko’s jaw tightened, but there was something in his eyes—tired and small—that made Jet’s chest ache.

“Jin…” Zuko started, then stopped.

Jet didn’t push. He just waited.

Zuko swallowed hard. “She didn’t forgive me,” he said quietly. “But she listened.”

Jet nodded once. “That’s huge.”

Zuko let out a bitter breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Jet’s voice went low. “Neither do they.”

Zuko looked at him sharply. “They’re the Avatar’s group.”

“They’re kids,” Jet corrected gently. “Aang’s a hundred years old and still a kid. Sokka pretends he isn’t scared and then makes jokes about dying. Katara’s holding the whole world on her shoulders and pretending it’s fine. Toph acts like nothing touches her because she can’t see it coming.”

Zuko stared at him, caught off guard by the insight.

Jet shrugged, almost embarrassed. “I watched.”

“Yeah,” Zuko muttered. “That’s what you do.”

Jet’s gaze held his. “It’s also what you do,” he said. “You watch for the moment people will hurt you, so you can hurt first.”

Zuko flinched.

Jet’s voice softened. “And today you didn’t,” he said quietly. “You poured tea.”

Zuko’s laugh came out thin. “That’s your measure of redemption? Tea?”

Jet stepped closer, enough that the cold air didn’t feel as sharp between them. “No,” he said. “My measure is that you came back with Iroh.”

Zuko’s throat tightened. “I almost didn’t.”

Jet’s eyes sharpened. “Don’t.”

Zuko blinked.

Jet’s voice went rough. “Don’t say that like it’s a joke. Like it’s casual.” His jaw clenched hard. “Two days, Zuko. I sat right there and listened to the mountain and told myself if you died it would be my fault because I didn’t break your order.”

Zuko’s breath hitched. He looked away fast, guilt stabbing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Jet’s eyes softened immediately—anger burning itself out into something quieter. He reached out, hesitated for half a second, then took Zuko’s hand.

Warm against cold. Steady against trembling.

“I’m not mad that you went,” Jet said. “I’m mad that you went alone.”

Zuko’s voice came out tight. “I ordered you to stay.”

Jet’s mouth twisted. “Yeah,” he said. “And I obeyed.” His thumb brushed the edge of Zuko’s bandage. “Don’t make me do that again.”

Zuko swallowed. “I had to. Someone had to keep them safe.”

Jet’s eyes narrowed. “And who keeps you safe.”

Zuko opened his mouth, then closed it.

Jet stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Let me,” he said. “Next time.”

Zuko’s throat worked. “There can’t be a next time.”

Jet gave him a look—flat, realistic. “There will be.”

Zuko’s shoulders sagged. “You’re not supposed to talk to me like this,” he muttered, defaulting to old armor.

Jet’s mouth twitched. “Are we doing ‘my lord’ again?”

Zuko’s cheeks warmed. “No.”

Jet’s expression softened into something almost gentle. “Good.”

They stood there with their hands linked, listening to the cave’s quiet: Appa’s breathing, the fire’s low crackle, the faint murmurs of the others in sleep.

Zuko stared out at the dark mountains. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he admitted, barely audible. “Working with them. Stopping Azula. Facing my father.”

Jet’s grip tightened, a silent anchor. “You can,” he said simply.

Zuko’s voice cracked. “How do you know?”

Jet leaned in just enough that his forehead almost touched Zuko’s. “Because you keep choosing the harder thing,” he whispered. “And because you’re still here.”

Zuko’s eyes burned. He blinked hard, furious at his own weakness.

Jet’s thumb brushed his knuckles again. “Also,” Jet added, quieter, “because you make really good tea.”

Zuko let out a shaky huff that might’ve been a laugh.

“Idiot,” he whispered.

Jet’s mouth curved. “Yeah,” he said. “But I’m your idiot.”

Zuko’s breath caught—heat blooming in his chest in that dangerous, tender way.

He didn’t insult him again.

He just squeezed Jet’s hand back and let himself stand there a moment longer, held together by tea steam and stubborn loyalty and the fragile possibility that maybe, somehow, he could be more than what the palace trained him to be.

Chapter Text

The first boom was distant enough that everyone tried to pretend it was thunder.

Then the second one hit.

The whole cave shivered. Dust trickled from the ceiling. Appa’s head jerked up, eyes wide and white. Toph’s bare feet pressed harder into the stone.

“That’s not thunder,” she said flatly.

A third concussive whump rolled up the mountain, deeper this time. The sound bounced around the cave walls, a low growl that set teeth on edge.

Aang scrambled to the entrance, peering out. The sky over Ba Sing Se—far below, distant but visible in the clear air—wasn’t just gray anymore. Orange flowers of fire bloomed along the outer wall, followed by slow, ugly plumes of smoke.

“What is that?” Sokka demanded, stumbling up beside him.

“Bombs,” Iroh said quietly, coming to stand near the mouth of the cave. His face had gone very still. “War balloons, perhaps. Or engines. Azula is… making a point.”

Toph’s eyes went unfocused as she listened through the mountain. Each distant impact rippled through her bones.

“Outer Ring,” she said. “She’s hitting the Lower Ring.”

Katara’s breath caught. “The Lower Ring is all… homes.”

“Exactly,” Iroh murmured.

Another blast. Closer, or at least aimed higher; even up here they felt the air pressure shift.

Aang stared, horrified. “There are families down there. Shops, kids, the—”

“The tea shop,” Zuko said.

He’d been sitting near the fire, half-dozing, trying to let warmth sink into joints that still remembered Azula’s lightning.

Now he was on his feet without remembering standing, eyes locked on the distant smear of the city. The smoke seemed to snake straight toward the Lower Ring in his vision, covering narrow streets and cramped apartments. Covering one specific little street with a crooked sign and a girl who wore her scarf too loose.

Jin.

His heart stuttered and then took off, too fast.

“She’s down there,” he said. “Jin is—she’s in the Lower Ring. She’s—”

He broke off, because words weren’t big enough. The next blast filled the gap.

Aang turned, expression pained. “Zuko, we don’t know exactly—”

“She lives four streets from the shop,” Zuko snapped. “Azula knows I cared about that district. She’ll hit it to break whatever hope is left. That’s what she does.”

Sokka opened his mouth. “We cannot just—”

Zuko was already moving. Toward the cave mouth, toward the narrow path down.

Jet stepped in his way.

He didn’t even think about it; his body just moved, sliding into Zuko’s path like a door slamming. One arm out, palm against the rock to block the narrow gap.

“Don’t,” Jet said.

Zuko nearly plowed into him. He stopped so close he could see the flecks of lighter brown in Jet’s eyes, the tightness in his jaw.

“Move,” Zuko bit out.

Another boom. The mountain vibrated.

Jet shook his head once. “You can’t get to her. Not through Azula. Not now. You’ll die before you reach the Lower Ring.”

Zuko’s hands were shaking. He curled them into fists to hide it. “Then I die trying.”

“That’s not noble, it’s useless,” Jet snapped.

“Easy for you to say,” Zuko shot back. “You didn’t lie to her. You didn’t drag her into all this. You didn’t—”

He cut off, breathing hard.

Behind them, Aang hovered, torn. Katara and Sokka stood further back, watching with guarded eyes; this was Zuko’s choice, but it was also theirs, whether they wanted it or not.

Iroh’s voice came, soft but clear. “Nephew.”

Zuko didn’t look away from Jet. “Don’t say it, Uncle.”

“I was going to say,” Iroh said, “if you go, you should not go alone.”

Jet stiffened. “Exactly,” he said quickly. “You’re not going alone because you’re not going.”

Zuko’s temper—held together for days by sheer stubborn will—finally cracked.

He grabbed Jet by the front of his worn coat, fingers twisting in the fabric.

Jet’s back hit the cave wall hard enough to knock a puff of dust loose. The cave narrowed around them; Jet’s shoulders, Zuko’s arm, stone on either side. Only a sliver of mountain sky beyond.

Toph sat up straighter. She could feel the way the rock took Jet’s weight, the sudden spike of both their pulses.

“Zuko—” Katara started.

He didn’t look back. His hand pressed Jet into the wall, forearm a hard bar across Jet’s chest. There was anger in his eyes—but fear too, wild and bright.

“You think I don’t know it’s stupid?” Zuko hissed, low. “You think I don’t know I probably won’t make it past the walls? I know. I know.”

Jet held his gaze, breath shallow. Zuko was close enough that Jet could feel the heat of his skin even through layers of cloth, taste smoke and metal in the air between them.

“Then why—” Jet started.

“Because she’s there,” Zuko snapped. “Because I put her there. Because if I stay up here and listen to that—” another bomb dropped, the boom underlining him, “—and I do nothing, I won’t be able to live with it. I can’t watch another city burn and tell myself it’s someone else’s problem.”

His fingers tightened in Jet’s coat. Jet’s shoulder blades pressed harder into the rock.

He’d been shoved against walls before. By trainers, by guards, by Fire Nation officers.

This felt… different.

Zuko’s voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “I ordered you to stay last time. You obeyed. You almost broke yourself in half doing it.”

Jet remembered every second of those two days. Every time his feet almost carried him down the path. Every time he stopped because the word stay had carved itself into his spine.

He swallowed. “You told me to protect them,” he said, nodding back toward the cave. “So I did.”

“I know,” Zuko said. For once, there was no anger in it. Just knowledge. “You kept your promise. Iroh is here. They’re alive. You did your job.”

Jet’s jaw clenched. “It’s not a job.”

“I know that too,” Zuko said.

He leaned in a fraction closer. The hand pinning Jet to the wall shook once, then steadied. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with fear and something else.

“This time,” Zuko said, careful and precise, “I’m not ordering you to stay.”

Jet’s breath hitched.

“I’m not leaving you behind,” Zuko went on. “I’m not walking into Azula’s fire without you at my back. I don’t—” He swallowed. “I don’t want to.”

Jet’s heart tripped.

“Zuko,” he said, and there was a warning in it, and a plea.

Zuko’s grip on his coat tightened, forearm pressing Jet harder into the stone, not quite painful, but inescapable. It pinned him in place in a way that lit up old instincts—stand, obey, guard—and something newer, hotter, more dangerous.

Jet hated how much he didn’t hate it.

Zuko’s voice slid lower, into that old, sharp register he’d sworn he wouldn’t use—cold and commanding, edged with too many nights in the palace.

“Come with me,” he said.

It wasn’t a request.

Jet’s breath came shorter.

“Zuko—” Aang started, tone alarmed.

Iroh lifted a hand, stopping him. His eyes were shadowed, but he said nothing.

Zuko’s fingers bunched harder in Jet’s collar, drawing him that last half-inch closer until Jet could feel the heat of his breath against his mouth.

He could have softened it. Could have said please.

He didn’t.

“Come with me,” Zuko repeated, words like the crack of a command staff. “That’s an order.”

Jet’s body firewalled itself for a second—training and choice colliding.

Every instinct that had been carved into him as a boy stood up and saluted: the prince had spoken; the world narrowed to yes, sir.

At the same time, the rebel in him—the boy who burned for freedom, who’d seen what obedience had done to Zuko, to himself—recoiled.

His fingers curled at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

He could say no.

He should.

Zuko’s eyes searched his face, desperate and demanding all at once. “Jet,” he said, almost a whisper now. “I need you.”

That did it.

Jet’s knees loosened. The fight shifted. This wasn’t just a prince abusing an old reflex. This was Zuko—the boy he’d held through fever dreams, the boy who’d shared stolen buns and stood between him and Azula’s laughter—reaching for him the only way he knew how under pressure.

Something dark and sweet twisted in Jet’s chest.

He let himself fall into the shape he knew best—not because he was owned, but because, for once, he chose it.

His chin dipped, just a fraction. His voice, when it came, was low and steady, palace-perfect and thick with something that made Zuko’s breath stutter.

“Yes, my lord,” Jet said.

The words burned and soothed at the same time, an old collar worn like jewelry instead of a chain.

Zuko exhaled, shaky.

For a heartbeat, they just hung there against the rock—Zuko’s hand on Jet’s chest, Jet’s hands still clenched at his sides, something charged and electric between them under the cold light and the distant rumble of bombs.

Jet’s mouth quirked, humorless. “You’re still an idiot,” he murmured, so only Zuko could hear. “But you’re my idiot.”

Zuko’s fingers twitched in his coat, as if he wanted to pull him closer and couldn’t decide whether he should.

Behind them, Katara made a small, strangled noise. “Okay,” she said. “We are not doing… whatever that is right now.”

Toph smirked openly. “Bold of you to assume they aren’t.”

Sokka scrubbed a hand over his face. “I hate this cave,” he muttered. “I hate this mountain. I hate war. I really hate sexy obedience vibes, what is happening.”

Aang’s cheeks were pink, but his voice, when he spoke, was serious. “If you’re going down there,” he said, “you’re not going alone.”

Zuko tore his gaze away from Jet with effort. “You can’t,” he said. “Azula will—”

“Target me?” Aang said. “She already does. But I can get you past the walls faster than you can run.” His expression hardened. “And if she’s bombing innocent people, it’s my problem too.”

Iroh nodded once, slow. “If you go,” he said, “you must go fast. Get the girl and whoever else you can. Do not try to win a battle you cannot win.”

Zuko let Jet go—slowly, fingers uncurling from his coat. The absence of pressure against Jet’s chest felt almost like a cold draft.

“We get Jin,” Zuko said, voice locking back into something controlled. “We get anyone else we can reach. We get out.”

Jet rolled his shoulders against the rock, like shaking off the phantom of old chains. He stepped away from the wall, position shifting from pinned to ready.

He caught Zuko’s eye, now very much awake and alert, not the boy dragged by palace reflexes but the man choosing his place.

“Whatever you say,” Jet said, a dangerous little smile touching his mouth. “My lord.”

Zuko’s ears went hot. He scowled. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Too late,” Jet murmured.

Another bomb bloomed over the city, orange against the pale sky.

Zuko turned toward it, jaw set.

“Then let’s go,” he said.

Aang grabbed his staff. Katara’s water skins sloshed as she tightened the straps. Sokka muttered the entire time he packed—about bad plans and worse crushes and how this was absolutely going to end in fire and tears.

Toph stood, bare feet finding their grip on the stone. “I’ll get you as close as I can with tunnels,” she said. “But if the mountain starts cracking, I’m sealing up any hole I make. I’m not letting Azula collapse a route with you in it.”

Iroh watched them, pride and worry etched equally deep on his face. “Remember,” he said softly, “you are not alone anymore. Fight like it.”

Zuko glanced once more at Jet.

Jet met his gaze, then gave a quick, sharp nod.

Not a bow.

A choice.

“Yes, my lord,” Jet had said.

And now, as they stepped out of the cave into the thin mountain air, down toward a city under Azula’s fire, the words sat between them like a promise and a threat and something dark that might yet burn its way into something better.

They got to the Lower Ring on smoke and adrenaline.

Toph found an old service tunnel that spit them out beneath a collapsed courtyard. Aang airbent the dust away in a tight spiral; Katara pulled water from a burst pipe and kept it moving around them like a shield. Sokka stayed close to Toph, muttering about “the worst rescue mission in history” while clutching his boomerang like it was a holy relic.

Zuko didn’t speak.

He moved like a man with one thought threaded through his spine: Jin. Jin. Jin.

Jet stayed half a step behind him, watching angles, listening for that particular rhythm of footfalls that meant Dai Li, eyes always flicking back to Zuko’s shoulder as if he could physically keep him from sprinting into a fire.

The streets were… wrong.

The Lower Ring was usually loud—vendors, kids, carts, gossip. Now it was all screaming and cracking wood, the roar of flame devouring paper walls and cheap beams.

Orange light painted everything like a sunset that didn’t end.

A building sagged inward with a groan. Sparks drifted like furious fireflies. People ran in clumps, carrying bundles, dragging crying children, clutching each other by the wrists so the smoke wouldn’t steal them.

“Azula’s hitting soft targets,” Sokka coughed, scarf pulled over his mouth. “Because of course she is.”

Toph’s face was hard. “She’s not just bombing,” she said, voice tight. “She’s making people panic. Panic makes crowds. Crowds make chaos. Chaos makes control easier.”

Aang’s expression twisted, sickened. “We have to help—”

“We are helping,” Katara said, voice fierce, water swirling around her forearms. “We get Jin and anyone we can grab on the way out.”

Zuko broke into a run.

Jet caught his sleeve. “Not alone.”

Zuko ripped his arm free, eyes blazing. “Don’t slow me down.”

Jet’s mouth tightened. “Then don’t make me.”

That was all he said, but he said it like a vow.

They turned into Jin’s street.

Or what was left of it.

The whole row of buildings on the east side had caught—flames crawling along awnings, chewing through fabric, climbing wood like it was eager. A cart had overturned, burning oil spreading in a slick line down the cobblestones. A roof had collapsed on itself; sparks shot up in a brief, violent fountain.

The heat hit them like a slap.

Zuko’s breath stuttered.

“Jin,” he said, hoarse, and started forward—

—and Jet grabbed him by the back of the collar and yanked him hard behind a stone post just as a burning beam crashed down where Zuko’s head would have been.

It shattered, sending embers everywhere.

Zuko whirled on him, furious.

Jet’s eyes were flinty. “You want to rescue her or join the street decor?”

Zuko swallowed the rage and shoved it down. “She’s in there,” he said, pointing at Jin’s building—third floor, left side. The window was black with smoke.

Katara’s water surged outward in a low arc, soaking the nearest burning awning. “Aang—wind,” she snapped.

Aang nodded and whipped a clean corridor of air through the street, shoving smoke back long enough to see.

Sokka sprinted toward a nearby family huddled against a wall. “Hey!” he yelled. “Run north! Away from the fire! Follow the wind—just—go!”

The father stared, dazed, then grabbed his kids and ran.

Toph planted her feet. “Go,” she told Zuko and Jet. “I’ll keep the street from collapsing under you.”

Zuko didn’t hesitate. He and Jet sprinted across the cobblestones, dodging burning debris.

The building’s stairwell was a chimney.

Smoke rolled down in thick waves, hot and choking. Someone had tried to douse the fire with a bucket; the water had evaporated into steam, turning the air into a damp, stinging haze.

Zuko lifted his sleeve over his mouth and powered upward anyway.

Jet stayed close, one hand on Zuko’s shoulder—guiding, grounding—pulling him back whenever the floor creaked wrong underfoot.

Second floor.

A door hung open, the inside glowing.

A scream from somewhere deeper.

Zuko’s eyes flicked toward it.

Jet’s grip tightened. “Jin first.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched, then he nodded once and kept climbing.

Third floor.

Jin’s door was shut.

Zuko slammed a fist against it. “Jin!”

No answer.

He tried the handle. Locked.

He inhaled, ready to burn the lock—

Jet’s hand shot out, catching his wrist. “Not yet,” Jet snapped. “You set the whole frame on fire, you trap her inside.”

Zuko’s throat worked. He nodded once, hard, and stepped back.

Jet pulled a thin pick from his sleeve—something he’d never shown the Gaang, something that belonged to old palace corridors and locked doors.

“Watch the hall,” Jet ordered.

Zuko bristled at the tone—then obeyed, because the building was literally burning around them and pride was useless here.

Jet’s fingers moved fast. The lock clicked.

Zuko shoved the door open.

Smoke rolled out like a living thing.

Inside, the apartment was dim and choking. The window was cracked open, but it wasn’t enough. A thin curtain had caught fire at the hem; it crawled upward slowly.

And Jin was there—huddled on the floor behind the couch, arms wrapped around her head, face smeared with soot, trembling so hard she looked like she might fall apart.

Her eyes snapped up at the door.

She saw Zuko.

For a heartbeat, her expression didn’t make sense—fear and relief and anger and disbelief, all at once.

“Zuko?” she croaked, voice hoarse. “What are you—”

“Come with me,” Zuko said, breathless. “Now.”

Jin stared at him like her brain couldn’t catch up to the idea that the boy who lied about his name was now standing in her burning apartment.

“Why are you—” she started, then coughed violently.

Jet crossed the room in three quick steps, yanked down the burning curtain with his bare hands, and stamped it out with a sharp grind of his boot.

“Less talking,” Jet said, voice clipped. “More breathing.”

Jin blinked at him—then at Zuko again. “The city—”

“We know,” Zuko said. His voice shook. “Azula—”

Jin’s eyes widened. “Your sister—she’s doing this?”

Zuko’s mouth twisted. “Yes.”

Jin’s throat bobbed. “I… I didn’t know where to go. The stairs—people—”

Zuko crouched in front of her, close enough that she could see the raw urgency in his eyes. “Jin,” he said, quieter. “Look at me.”

Jin did, trembling.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko said. “For everything. I don’t have time to say it right. But I’m saying it anyway.”

Her eyes shone. “Zuko—”

“I came back for you,” he said, voice cracking on the words like they cost him. “Because I couldn’t—” He swallowed hard. “Because you matter.”

Jin’s breath hitched.

Jet’s eyes flicked away, jaw tight, as if watching this was like swallowing glass.

“Move,” Jet said again, sharper now. “This building is going.”

A beam above them groaned.

That decided it.

Jin scrambled up, swaying, grabbing her coat with shaking hands.

Zuko caught her elbow to steady her. “Leave it,” he said when she fumbled for a bag. “You can get new things.”

Jin’s mouth trembled. “Not—” She swallowed. “Not everything.”

Zuko held her gaze for half a second—then nodded, once, because he understood more than she realized.

“Jet,” Zuko said, and it wasn’t a command this time. It was a request disguised as a name.

Jet responded anyway. He yanked a small pouch from a drawer—money, likely—and shoved it into Jin’s hands.

“Take it,” Jet said. “Later you can argue about pride.”

Jin stared. “I—”

“No,” Jet cut in. “Move.”

They moved.

Zuko led Jin into the hall, keeping his body between her and the worst of the smoke. Jet took the rear, one hand on Jin’s shoulder blade to keep her from stumbling, the other ready to catch Zuko if he tried to run back into flames like an idiot.

The stairs were chaos—people pushing downward, coughing, crying.

Katara’s voice echoed from outside, shouting instructions.

Aang’s wind swept through the stairwell in bursts, clearing air just long enough to breathe.

Toph’s earthbending kept the building from collapsing in the exact places it wanted to.

They hit the street like breaking the surface of water.

Jin stumbled, gasping, eyes wide as she took in the burning row of homes, the screaming, the orange haze.

Then she saw them—Aang, Katara, Sokka, Toph—standing in the middle of the street like they were holding the world up by force.

Jin froze.

The Avatar’s group.

Real.

Here.

In her street.

“Oh,” she whispered, and it came out like a sob.

Katara’s eyes flicked to her—then to Zuko—then back. Her expression was tight, but her voice was urgent. “We have to go. Now.”

Aang stepped forward, gentle even in chaos. “Hi,” he said awkwardly, then winced at himself. “Um—are you okay?”

Jin stared at him, then nodded frantically. “Yes—no—I don’t know—”

Sokka jabbed a thumb toward the alley. “Great! Existential crisis later. Running now.”

Toph stomped, sending a stone ridge up to block a wave of flame creeping down the street. “Tunnel’s still open,” she said. “But not for long.”

Another explosion boomed—closer this time. A shockwave rolled across rooftops.

Aang’s face tightened. “She’s moving the line.”

Zuko’s eyes burned. He looked at Jin, who was coughing again, shaking, soot streaked across her cheek.

He took her hand.

Jin startled at the contact—then gripped back hard, like she was afraid he’d disappear.

Jet watched their hands, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Then he stepped in closer on Jin’s other side, voice low. “Keep up. Don’t stop.”

Jin nodded quickly, swallowing smoke and fear. “Okay.”

They ran.

Back through the alley, into the service tunnel, down into the dark underbelly of Ba Sing Se. The air cooled as they descended, the roar of fire fading behind them into a distant, ugly thunder.

Toph sealed passages behind them as they went—quick, brutal earthbending that left no trail for Dai Li or Azula’s soldiers to follow.

Aang kept a steady pocket of air moving around Jin’s face so she could breathe.

Katara kept checking Jin’s hands and lips for signs of shock.

Sokka muttered prayers to whatever spirit watched over idiots who thought rescue missions were a hobby.

Zuko kept his grip on Jin like it was the only stable thing in the world.

Jet stayed tight behind them, scanning shadows, senses sharp, ready to kill anyone who appeared.

When they finally burst back out near the mountain foothills, night had dropped like a curtain.

Smoke still stained the distant horizon. Ba Sing Se glowed faintly like a sick sunrise.

The climb back to the cave was brutal. Jin stumbled more than once; Zuko practically carried her the last stretch, arm around her waist, pulling her up as she fought to keep moving.

Jet took her other side without being asked, steadying her when Zuko’s footing slipped.

By the time the cave mouth appeared—dark and familiar against the rock—Jin looked half-dead with exhaustion.

Inside, Appa lifted his head, rumbling in surprise.

Iroh rose instantly, face softening. “Jin,” he said, voice full of gentle relief. “You are safe.”

Jin stared at him, then at the strange cave, the fire, the blankets, the Avatar’s group.

Then her eyes landed on Zuko again—on the soot in his hair, the fresh burn on his sleeve, the way he still hadn’t let go of her hand.

“You…” she whispered, voice breaking. “You came back.”

Zuko swallowed hard. “I told you,” he said, rough. “If I came, it would be as myself.”

Jin’s eyes filled. She nodded shakily, then—without warning—she stepped forward and shoved her face into his chest.

Zuko froze for a second like he didn’t know what to do with tenderness.

Then his arms came up around her, careful and strong, holding her like she was real and not a dream he’d ruined.

Jet looked away, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped. He busied himself with checking the cave mouth, scanning the path, keeping watch—anything but watching that hug.

Katara watched him watch away, then sighed quietly and moved to fill a cup with water for Jin.

Aang’s shoulders loosened, relief shining in his face. “You got her,” he whispered.

Toph smirked. “Yeah,” she said. “He didn’t die. I’m honestly shocked.”

Sokka exhaled like he’d been holding it for an hour. “Okay,” he said. “Fine. Good job. Everyone lives. Can we please stop adopting people now?”

Iroh stepped closer, hands gentle as he guided Jin toward the fire. “Sit,” he said softly. “Warm up. Drink. Breathe.”

Jin sat, still shaking, and Katara handed her water without a word.

Jin drank, coughing, then looked up at Zuko again—eyes red, but steadying.

“Your sister did this,” she said, voice small.

Zuko’s expression hardened, pain sharpening into resolve. “Yes.”

Jin’s hands trembled around the cup. “Then… what happens now?”

Silence gathered around the fire, heavy and hot.

Zuko glanced at the distant orange glow on the horizon, then back at Jin, then at the Gaang—people he’d once sworn to capture and now stood beside.

His voice, when it came, was low and absolute.

“Now,” Zuko said, “we stop her.”

Jet’s gaze flicked to him—sharp, hungry, protective.

“Yeah,” Jet murmured, almost to himself. “Now we do.”

Chapter Text

The cave was warmer now, not because the fire was bigger, but because there were more people breathing in it.

Jin sat close to the flames with Katara’s blanket around her shoulders, hair smelling faintly of smoke. Her hands were wrapped around a cup of tea Iroh had pressed into her like it was medicine. Her cheeks were still streaked with soot, and every so often her eyes would drift toward the cave mouth like she expected the world to explode again.

Appa shifted, rumbling low, and Jin startled—then stared at the massive creature like she’d only just remembered she was sharing a cave with a sky bison.

Aang noticed and offered her a careful, hopeful smile. “He’s… gentle,” he said. “Mostly. Unless you’re a cabbage cart.”

Sokka perked up. “Oh! Cabbage carts. We have a whole thing with those.”

Jin blinked. “Cabbage carts?”

Toph grinned. “You’ll learn.”

Jin let out a tiny, shaky laugh that sounded like relief trying to remember how to exist.

Katara sat on her other side, still guarded but no longer sharp-edged, like the rescue had rewired something in her. She handed Jin a second cup—water this time—and said, quietly, “Drink slowly.”

Jin nodded. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Sokka hovered like he didn’t know what to do with a civilian in the middle of a war plan. Eventually he settled for sitting across from her and asking, “So. Uh. You’re from the Lower Ring?”

Jin gave him a look that said obviously even though her voice stayed polite. “Yes.”

Sokka nodded as if that explained everything. “Cool. Cool. Do you… know where people are hiding? Like, if the city keeps—” He gestured vaguely, meaning the bombs, the fire, the fear.

Jin’s face tightened. “There are old storm cellars,” she said. “Some families have basements. Most people just… run.” She swallowed. “The walls make you feel safe until they don’t.”

Toph snorted. “Walls are overrated.”

Aang leaned forward, earnest. “Jin, I’m really sorry,” he said. “About your street. About the city. We’re going to stop her.”

Jin’s eyes flicked to Zuko, then to Iroh, then back to Aang. “You’re the Avatar,” she said softly. “Everyone says you’re supposed to fix things.”

Aang’s mouth twisted. “I’m… trying.”

Jin studied him for a moment, then nodded once, like she’d decided he was sincere even if he was young.

“And you,” she said, turning slightly toward Toph. “You’re really blind?”

Toph’s face went bright with delight. “Yes!” she said, as if answering a fun riddle. “And I’m the greatest earthbender in the world. You should say ‘wow’ now.”

Jin blinked. “Wow.”

Toph beamed. “See? Perfect.”

Sokka leaned closer, conspiratorial. “She makes everyone say that.”

“I don’t make them,” Toph said. “They want to. It’s natural.”

Jin’s laughter came easier this time—still tired, but real.

And somewhere in the middle of all that—tea steam, bison rumbles, bickering—Jin’s gaze kept drifting back to Zuko.

Zuko had been hovering near the edge of the firelight, like he didn’t trust himself to be too close to anyone. Jet was a shadow at the cave mouth, keeping watch, but his eyes flicked back to Zuko and Jin constantly, like a tether.

Jin set her cup down, fingers tight around the rim.

“Zuko,” she said.

He flinched at his own name and looked up. “Yeah?”

The cave quieted. Not completely—Appa snorted, the fire popped—but the attention shifted.

Jin’s throat bobbed. “When you came into my apartment…” she whispered, then swallowed. “You didn’t have to.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Yes I did.”

Jin’s eyes shone. “You didn’t,” she insisted, voice trembling. “You could have stayed safe. You could’ve let me be… just another person in the Lower Ring.”

Zuko’s eyes darkened. “I tried that,” he said quietly. “It didn’t work.”

Jin’s mouth trembled. She nodded slowly, like she was letting that sink in.

“I was angry,” she said. “I still am. I hated that you lied to me. I hated that you made me feel stupid for trusting you.”

Zuko looked down, shame tightening his shoulders. “You weren’t stupid.”

Jin’s breath hitched. “I know,” she whispered. “Now.”

She reached up and wiped at her cheek angrily, then forced herself to keep going.

“You told me about your palace life,” she said, voice quieter. “About… what they did to you.”

Zuko’s throat tightened.

Jin looked at him steadily, the way she used to when she wanted him to answer honestly about something small—only now it was everything.

“I didn’t know people could be raised like that,” she said. “Like… like cruelty was the only language in the house.”

Zuko’s voice was a rasp. “It was.”

Jin nodded. “And when you lied to me, it wasn’t because you didn’t care.” She swallowed. “It was because you didn’t believe you were allowed to be cared about.”

Zuko’s breath caught, sharp.

Jet’s eyes flicked over from the cave mouth, attention snapping in.

Zuko’s voice came out rough. “Jin—”

Jin held up a hand, stopping him. “Let me finish.”

Zuko froze.

Jin took a breath. “I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt,” she said. “It does. But… I understand.” Her eyes softened. “Not all of it. But enough.”

Zuko stared at her like she’d just handed him something fragile and impossible.

“You… forgive me?” he asked, disbelieving.

Jin’s mouth trembled. “I forgive you,” she said. Then, with a grim little huff: “Which doesn’t mean you’re not an idiot.”

Toph snorted. Sokka looked impressed. Katara’s lips twitched despite herself.

Zuko blinked, then let out a shaky breath that sounded suspiciously like relief trying not to cry.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Jin’s gaze shifted then—past Zuko, to Jet.

Jet had gone still, like he’d turned to stone. His face was controlled, but his eyes were alert in a way that made it clear he’d rather face Azula than whatever this conversation was becoming.

Jin studied him for a long moment.

Then she said, carefully, “And you.”

Jet’s jaw flexed. “Me.”

Jin’s voice softened. “You’re… very loyal.”

Jet’s mouth twitched, humorless. “That’s one word.”

Jin’s eyes flicked to Zuko again, then back. “I saw it in the market,” she said quietly. “When he called you and you answered.” She swallowed. “And when you helped me out of my apartment.”

Jet’s gaze held hers, guarded. “I did that because it was right.”

“And because he asked,” Jin added, gently, eyes on the way Jet’s shoulders tightened.

Jet didn’t deny it.

Jin’s voice went very quiet. “I don’t know anything about palace life,” she said. “But I know what it looks like when someone is… trained to belong to someone else.”

Zuko flinched, sharp.

Jet’s eyes flashed, defensive.

Jin held up both hands, quick. “I’m not accusing you,” she said. “I’m saying… I get it.”

Jet stared at her like he didn’t trust kindness from anyone who wasn’t Zuko.

Jin’s gaze shifted to Zuko again—soft, understanding, a little sad.

“You two,” Jin said, voice barely above the crackle of fire, “you don’t look like a prince and his bodyguard.”

Zuko’s breath hitched.

Jet’s throat worked.

“You look like…” Jin searched for the word, then landed on the truth. “Like two boys who survived the same house and made each other the only safe place in it.”

Silence settled like snow.

Toph’s face went startlingly still, like even she didn’t want to break it with a joke.

Katara looked down into her hands, something conflicted in her eyes.

Sokka blinked hard, expression suddenly very interested in his boomerang.

Aang just watched, quiet and wide-eyed, like he was witnessing something sacred and fragile.

Zuko’s voice came out rough. “Jin—”

Jin’s mouth trembled into a small smile. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m not… jealous. Not like that.”

Jet’s brows pulled together, confused and wary. “Then what are you—”

Jin shrugged helplessly, eyes shining. “I’m saying I see you,” she said. “Both of you.”

Jet’s jaw clenched, like he didn’t know what to do with being seen.

Zuko’s eyes were bright, and for a second he looked younger—raw and open and terrified of breaking.

Iroh cleared his throat gently—not to interrupt, but to give the moment a tiny breath. “Ah,” he murmured with a soft smile, “the tea is doing its job.”

Toph recovered first. “Okay,” she said loudly, because she couldn’t stand sincerity for too long. “Is anyone else hungry?”

Sokka pointed at her. “Now you’re my favorite again.”

Katara sighed, exhaling some of the tension that had been sitting in her chest like a knot. She glanced at Zuko once—brief, reluctant—and said quietly, “For what it’s worth… I’m glad you went back for her.”

Zuko blinked, startled by the olive branch.

He nodded once, throat tight. “Yeah.”

The conversation slowly shifted again—back to practical things: food, shelter, what they’d do next. Iroh offered small handfuls of dried fruit and stale buns like they were delicacies. Sokka complained. Everyone ate anyway.

Eventually the fire burned lower. Voices softened. The cave settled into that odd, shared quiet that only comes when people are too tired to keep being afraid.

Jin yawned and blinked hard, exhaustion finally catching up.

“I don’t think I can sleep,” she admitted, voice small. “Every time I close my eyes I hear the—” She flinched, fingers tightening on her blanket.

Katara immediately shifted closer. “You can sleep near me,” she offered, cautious but kind. “I’ll—wake you if anything happens.”

Jin’s eyes softened. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Zuko looked like he wanted to offer the same and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

Jet watched him struggle with it, jaw tight.

Jin glanced between them—understanding settling again—and then, very carefully, she stood and moved toward Zuko and Jet’s side of the cave.

Sokka’s head popped up. “Oh no,” he whispered, like someone watching a dangerous animal approach a cliff.

Toph grinned. “Oh yes.”

Jin lowered herself down between Zuko and Jet with the slow confidence of someone who’d decided she was done being scared of awkwardness.

Zuko froze like his brain short-circuited.

Jet’s shoulders went rigid, eyes flicking toward the cave mouth as if he could pretend this wasn’t happening.

Jin tugged the blanket around herself, then leaned back—gently, deliberately—so her shoulder rested against Zuko’s arm.

Then she shifted just enough that her other shoulder brushed Jet’s.

Zuko’s breath caught. “Jin—”

Jin looked up at him, eyes tired but steady. “If you’re going to keep saving me,” she whispered, “then you’re going to have to let me stop being scared around you.”

Zuko swallowed hard. “I’m not—”

“Stop,” Jin murmured, a soft smile. “No more pushing people away like it’s a duty.”

Zuko stared at her like he didn’t know how to argue with kindness.

Jet’s voice came low, wary. “What are you doing.”

Jin turned her head slightly toward him. “Being warm,” she said simply. “And being honest.” Her eyes softened. “You don’t have to stand watch every second. We’re in a cave. Appa is basically a wall.”

Appa snorted like he agreed.

Jet huffed a quiet laugh despite himself, then immediately looked annoyed that he’d done it.

Jin settled further, snuggling down like she was building a nest out of the only safe bodies available.

Zuko’s arm hovered awkwardly for a second—then, slowly, carefully, he let it rest around her shoulders.

It was tentative, like he was afraid touching her would break the forgiveness.

Jin relaxed into it with a quiet sigh.

Jet stayed stiff for a long moment, fighting old instincts that said don’t be vulnerable, don’t be soft, don’t let anyone see you need.

Then Jin’s foot nudged his accidentally, and she mumbled, half-asleep, “You too,” like it was a command and a comfort at once.

Jet’s throat worked.

Finally, he shifted—just a fraction—so his shoulder pressed more solidly against Jin’s, and his cloak fell across the three of them in a shared shadow.

Zuko glanced at him, surprised.

Jet didn’t look back. His voice was almost inaudible. “Don’t make it weird.”

Zuko’s mouth twitched. “You’re the one who makes everything weird.”

Jet’s lips quirked. “Yeah. That’s my job.”

Zuko’s gaze softened, and he let himself lean back against the wall, letting the warmth of two bodies—one forgiven, one chosen—anchor him in place.

Across the cave, Katara watched the three of them for a long beat, expression complicated, then looked away and pretended she hadn’t.

Sokka mouthed silently at Aang: Are we just… adopting everyone now?

Aang shrugged helplessly, smiling a little.

Toph lay back and grinned at the ceiling like she’d just won a bet no one else knew existed.

Iroh, already half-asleep, murmured dreamily, “Ah… harmony…”

It was late morning before anyone said the thing they were all thinking.

They’d eaten a meager breakfast—stale buns, dried fruit, and tea that was doing its best to be a full meal. The bombs had stopped sometime in the night, leaving the horizon over Ba Sing Se a dull, ugly smear of gray.

Everyone kept glancing at it anyway.

Aang sat cross-legged near the cave mouth, staff across his lap, staring down at the city. Katara sat beside him, knees hugged to her chest. Sokka paced in a tight circle. Toph lay on her stomach, feet on the stone, chin in her hands. Jin stayed close to the fire, blanket around her shoulders, one eye on Zuko without quite meaning to.

Zuko and Jet were both awake but not exactly rested—Zuko sitting up with his back to the wall, Jet near the entrance, half guard, half restless shadow. Iroh poured tea with the serenity of someone who had decided that if the world was going to end, it might as well do it with proper steeping time.

Sokka finally broke.

“So,” he said, stopping mid-pace, hands on his hips. “What in the name of all flying lemurs are we actually doing?”

Aang sighed. “Sokka…”

“No, really,” Sokka pushed. “Because as far as I can tell, our current strategy is ‘hide in a mountain and hope Azula gets bored.’ Which, spoiler alert, she won’t.”

Katara frowned. “We needed to rest. Jin needed to recover. So did Zuko and—”

“I know,” Sokka said, softer for a second. Then he shook his head, frustrated. “But we can’t stay up here forever. Ba Sing Se is gone. The Earth King’s a puppet. The Dai Li are Azula’s personal rock cult. The Fire Nation is winning. Again.”

He looked pointedly at Zuko and Iroh. “You two actually know how these maniacs think. What now?”

Aang turned too, eyes earnest and a bit desperate. “Yeah,” he said. “We’ve been… improvising. But this is bigger. We need a real plan.”

Toph rolled onto her side, smirking. “Hear that, Sparky? You’re promotion material.”

Zuko stiffened, caught in the spotlight. “I’m not—”

Iroh set down his teapot, eyes kind but serious. “They are asking you as someone who understands your sister and your father,” he said. “Not as a prince.”

Sokka snorted. “Also as a prince. Let’s not pretend the crown doesn’t come with… insight.”

Jet shifted from his lean against the wall, straightening a little. The word “plan” lit something sharp in him; it was closer to his natural terrain than feelings and forgiveness.

Katara’s gaze moved to Jet as well. “You were in the palace too,” she said. “And you’ve been in Ba Sing Se’s underbelly. What would Azula do next?”

Jet’s eyes flicked to Zuko and Iroh briefly, as if asking silent permission to step into that conversation. Then he pushed off the wall and moved closer to the center of the cave, posture unconsciously sliding into something formal.

Iroh folded his hands in his lap, expression shifting too—less sleepy uncle, more retired general.

Zuko exhaled, shoulders tightening, then scooted forward a little so he sat opposite Iroh, the fire between them like a low war table.

The atmosphere in the cave changed.

Even Toph felt it through the stone—the click as three people slipped into an old pattern none of the others knew.

Aang, Katara, Sokka, Toph, and Jin ended up arrayed in a loose circle just outside, watching.

Iroh spoke first, voice calm, measured. “Let us begin with what we know,” he said. “Azula has taken Ba Sing Se and bent the Dai Li to her will.”

Jet’s tone shifted—crisper, more precise, Berthold-trained with a Ba Sing Se edge. “Yes, General,” he said without thinking.

Sokka blinked. “General?”

Iroh’s mouth twitched. “Old habits.”

Jet nodded once, then went on. “Her control is recent. That’s her vulnerability. The Dai Li obey, but they don’t trust her yet.”

Zuko frowned, chin tipping down in thought. When he spoke, his voice was formal in a way the Gaang hadn’t really heard—clipped, clear, the prince who’d been forced to recite battle plans in audience halls.

“With respect,” Zuko said, “Azula doesn’t need their trust. Only their fear. Fear is more efficient in the short term.”

Jet inclined his head, accepting the point. “Agreed, my lord,” he said.

Aang made a faint choking noise at the phrase my lord. Toph muffled a laugh in her sleeve. Jin’s cheeks went a little pink, but her eyes stayed steady.

Iroh steepled his fingers. “Fear has limits,” he said. “Azula can hold the city by force, but she cannot win hearts with it. That is our long-term advantage. But long term… we do not have.”

Sokka crossed his arms. “Because of the… comet thing?”

Aang winced. “Sozin’s Comet,” he confirmed. “We don’t know exactly when, but it’s… not far.”

Iroh nodded. “When the comet returns, the Fire Lord’s power will be… overwhelming,” he said. “If you face him, Avatar, it must be before that day.”

“Great,” Sokka muttered. “So we’re on a ticking flaming rock clock.”

Katara looked between Iroh and Zuko. “So what are our options?” she asked. “Real ones. Not ‘charge Azula head-on and hope she trips.’”

Jet didn’t even blink at that. “Option one,” he said, ticking it off mentally. “We attempt to retake Ba Sing Se.”

Zuko shook his head immediately. “Impossible with our current strength,” he said. “Azula has the Dai Li, the city’s infrastructure, and the element of shock. We’d be slaughtered.”

“Correct,” Iroh said. “We have neither numbers nor siege weapons. And the Earth Kingdom is not unified enough to respond quickly.”

Jet nodded. “So option one is suicide.”

“Hard pass,” Sokka said quickly. “Next.”

“Option two,” Jet continued. “We remain in the Earth Kingdom, hit Azula’s supply lines, and foment resistance within the city.”

Toph perked up. “Ooh. Underground rock rebellion. I like that one.”

Zuko considered it, brow furrowing. “She’d expect that,” he said. “She knows Ba Sing Se’s underbelly now. And she knows Uncle and I are with you. She’ll be looking for signs of us.”

Iroh sipped his tea, thoughtful. “Besides,” he said, “even if we weaken her in the Earth Kingdom, the Fire Lord remains. The war will continue. Only the banners will change.”

Aang lowered his head. “I still have to defeat him,” he said softly. “Fire Lord Ozai.”

Jet’s gaze flicked to him, then back to Iroh. “So the central problem is unchanged,” he said. “We must remove the Fire Lord before the comet. Azula is… an obstacle and a threat, but not the primary objective.”

Jin watched, eyes moving between them. “You talk like… like map pieces,” she said quietly.

Zuko’s shoulders tightened. “That’s how we were taught,” he said, not quite apologizing.

“Option three,” Iroh said gently, “is that we disappear.”

Katara frowned. “Disappear how?”

“Go to ground,” Jet answered, slipping neatly into the rhythm. “Abandon Ba Sing Se. Avoid Fire Nation patrols. Train the Avatar in remote locations. Strike only when ready.”

Sokka lifted a hand. “I like this one. Huge fan of not dying.”

Zuko’s glare could have lit a candle. “Abandoning Ba Sing Se means leaving Azula free to consolidate power,” he said. “She’ll have an entire Earth Kingdom metropolis as a resource.”

“Which she already has,” Jet said. “We can’t un-ring that bell. We can only decide where we’re most useful.”

Toph tilted her head, listening to the ground, their voices, their heartbeats. “He believes that,” she reported, nodding toward Jet. “He’s not being a defeatist. Just… ruthless.”

“Ruthless is not always wrong,” Iroh said softly. “Only dangerous when it forgets compassion.”

Jet accepted the gentle rebuke with a small dip of his head. “Noted, General.”

Katara looked at Aang. “Training in secret was the idea before,” she said. “Except we went to the North Pole.”

“And look how well that turned out,” Sokka muttered. “Minus the part where the ocean turned into a fish and—never mind.”

Iroh set his cup down, tone taking on a quiet authority that made the cave seem smaller. “Avatar Aang,” he said, “you have mastered waterbending and earthbending. Fire remains.”

Aang’s shoulders tensed. “I’m… not exactly excited to learn the element that’s tried to kill me most.”

Zuko looked away, shame flickering across his face.

Iroh nodded, understanding. “Fire is life as well as destruction,” he said. “But to master it safely, you will need a teacher who understands both.”

Toph’s blind eyes slid toward Zuko, a slow grin spreading. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Sokka flailed. “Wait. Are you saying Zuko is going to be Aang’s firebending teacher? Zuko. Scar-face. Drama prince. That Zuko?”

Zuko bristled. “I’m right here.”

Jet’s mouth twitched. “He’s qualified,” he said dryly. “If only through intimate knowledge of terrible firebending choices.”

Iroh gave Zuko a small nod. “He has seen the worst of what fire can do,” he said. “And he does not wish to repeat it. That is a better foundation than arrogance.”

Aang chewed his lip, glancing nervously at Zuko. “I don’t know if I can… trust fire,” he admitted. “Or… you.”

Zuko met his gaze squarely, something steady behind the shame. “You don’t have to trust me right away,” he said. “But I know how my sister thinks. I know how my father fights. If you go to fight them alone, without knowing my element from the inside…” He shook his head. “You won’t win.”

Silence.

The distant wind howled outside the cave, dragging snow along the rocks.

Katara folded her arms, staring at Zuko. “And you,” she said, “teaching the Avatar? That’s… a lot of trust, from us.”

Zuko swallowed. “I want Azula stopped,” he said. “I want my father stopped.” His voice dropped. “I don’t want another city to look like Ba Sing Se.”

Jet glanced at him, then nodded once, backing his words. “He’s serious,” Jet said. “He already had one chance to go back. He chose this instead.”

Toph tapped the stone thoughtfully. “So option three is: we disappear, we train Twinkletoes, we get him ready to punch a volcano man in the face before a space rock shows up.”

“Inaccurate but… directionally correct,” Iroh said, amused.

Sokka sighed. “Fine. That’s… an actual strategy. Train, then strike the head of the snake.”

Jin spoke up for the first time in the “war council,” voice tentative. “What about Ba Sing Se?” she asked. “My friends. The other people in the Lower Ring. Are we just… leaving them?”

The formal cadence in Zuko, Jet and Iroh faltered for a second—just enough.

Iroh’s expression softened. “We are not abandoning them,” he said gently. “We are choosing the battle that could end the war for everyone, including them.”

Zuko’s eyes flicked to Jin, full of guilt. “We’ll go back,” he said quietly. “When we can actually do something.”

Jet nodded. “Right now, charging back in helps Azula more than it helps them,” he said. “She’d love to catch the Avatar in her new city.”

Sokka grimaced. “Yeah, hard pass.”

Aang drew his knees up, thinking hard. Then he nodded, small but real.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll learn firebending. With Zuko.” He looked at Zuko. “But if you try to capture me again—”

“I won’t,” Zuko said, immediate. Then, wryly, “Uncle would kill me.”

Iroh smiled. “I would be… very disappointed.”

Toph clapped her hands once. “Settled,” she declared. “We vanish. We train. We come back later and ruin Azula’s day and your dad’s throne.”

Sokka cleared his throat. “Uh-uh. Not settled. We still haven’t decided how to disappear.”

Jet slid back into strategy mode. “We can’t stay in the Earth Kingdom long,” he said. “Azula will sweep for us. The Fire Nation fleet will tighten patrols on the coasts. The safest hiding place might actually be…” He trailed off, glancing at Zuko.

“The Fire Nation itself,” Zuko finished, grim.

Everyone else: “WHAT.”

Iroh’s eyes twinkled, though his face stayed serious. “Sometimes,” he said, “the best way to hide is in the one place no one expects you to be.”

Sokka threw his hands up. “Oh, sure. Let’s all go on vacation to Volcano Murder Island. Great idea.”

Zuko frowned at the dirt between his knees. “It’s not… impossible,” he said. “There are remote villages. Coastlines. Places the war hasn’t touched directly. People are used to seeing Fire Nation ships and uniforms, not questioning them.”

Jet nodded slowly. “Disguises,” he said. “We know how those work.” His gaze flicked to Jin, gentle. “Sometimes too well.”

Jin managed a small smile. “You’d be… safe there?” she asked. “In your own country?”

Zuko’s mouth twisted. “Safe from Azula’s spies? No,” he said. “But it would be easier to move without attracting attention. And easier for me to teach Aang firebending where the element is… everywhere.”

Aang swallowed. “You want me to hide in the Fire Nation,” he said. “With the people who have been trying to catch me since I woke up.”

“Yes,” Jet said. “Which is why it just might work.”

Iroh nodded, approving. “We would move as refugees, perhaps,” he mused. “Or traders. A small family unit draws less attention.”

Sokka blinked. “Family unit?”

Toph smirked. “Dibs on not being the baby.”

“Obviously I’m the dad,” Sokka declared, puffing up.

Katara groaned. “Spirits help us.”

Jin glanced at Zuko and Jet again, cheeks coloring. “And us?” she asked, quieter. “Where do we fit in? If you’re… hiding like that.”

Zuko hesitated, looking to Iroh without meaning to.

Iroh’s gaze was warm. “If you wish to come, Jin,” he said gently, “you would be welcome. The Fire Nation is… dangerous. But so is staying in a city under Azula’s rule.”

Jin looked down at her hands, thinking of burning streets and ruined homes. “Ba Sing Se isn’t my home anymore,” she said softly. Then, more determined, “I’m coming.”

Zuko’s chest tightened. “Jin, you don’t—”

“I do,” she said, steady. “If I stay, I’m under your sister’s bombs. If I go, I’m under your weird… dragon uncle… and your friends.” Her mouth quirked. “I like my odds better here.”

Jet gave a short nod, accepting her into the calculus without comment.

Katara watched the three of them through narrowed eyes—Zuko, Jet, Jin sitting in the firelight, shoulders almost but not quite touching—and then sighed.

“What?” Sokka demanded.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just… our weird little group keeps getting weirder.”

Iroh clapped his hands softly. “Then it is decided,” he said. “We travel. We train. We gather allies where we can.”

Sokka grumbled, but there was a spark in his eyes now—the part of him that liked plans, maps, and probability charts. “We’re going to need supplies, false papers, probably a boat—”

Jet flipped a small knife in his fingers, catching it neatly. “I can get forged documents,” he said. “Fire Nation seals. Old connections.”

Zuko arched a brow. “From where?”

Jet smiled, quick and sharp. “You’re not the only one who stole things out of the palace.”

Iroh chuckled. “It seems our council has a good mix of talents.”

Aang looked between them all—uncle, prince, bodyguard, waterbender, earthbender, warrior, city girl—and exhaled.

“This is really happening,” he said quietly.

Katara touched his shoulder, reassuring. “We’ll face it together,” she said.

Toph cracked her knuckles. “And when it’s time to hit Azula and your dad,” she said to Zuko, “you three can do your formal war talk again. It’s kind of fun to watch.”

Sokka nodded. “Yeah. It’s like getting front-row seats to a very polite knife fight.”

Jin smiled, resting her chin on her knees. “It’s like watching a tea ceremony where the tea is… strategy.”

Zuko groaned. “Stop.”

Jet’s lips quirked. “With respect, my lord,” he murmured, slipping back into that precise tone just to see Zuko’s eye twitch, “they’re not wrong.”

Zuko muttered something in Fire Nation under his breath that was probably not complimentary.

Iroh patted his nephew’s shoulder. “You will make a fine general yet,” he said. “Once the war is over, and there are only festivals to organize.”

Zuko blinked. “Festivals?”

“Someone must plan where the fireworks go,” Iroh said serenely. “Better you than Azula.”

For the first time since the bombs started falling, the laughter in the cave wasn’t just a brittle defense. It had a little weight to it. A little hope.

Chapter Text

The island was the kind of place maps forgot on purpose.

A crescent of black volcanic sand, a ragged spine of green jungle, and cliffs that dropped into a churning gray sea. There was a tiny fishing village on the leeward side—maybe thirty houses, smoke curling from cookfires, nets drying on poles like flags. No garrison. No port worth patrolling. Just a stubborn little community living where the Fire Nation’s war machine didn’t bother to look too closely.

Perfect.

They arrived at dusk in a borrowed skiff that smelled like old fish and newer fear. Aang kept his hood up the whole time, eyes scanning the shoreline like it might bite. Katara stayed near him, steady and protective. Sokka was seasick and bitter about it. Toph announced the boat was “lying” about being stable and threatened to sink it out of spite. Appa stayed hidden in a cove on the far side of the island, tucked under a canopy of stone and vines where only the sky and the ocean could see him.

Zuko and Jet moved like they’d done this a thousand times: quiet, alert, blending into the scenery. Iroh did too, but in the way a friendly uncle blends into a room—smiling, speaking to fishermen like they were old friends, trading tea leaves for a place to sleep.

They rented two small huts at the edge of the village: one for Iroh and Zuko, one for the Gaang, with Jet “sleeping wherever was most useful,” which meant near the door no matter what anyone said. Jin stayed with Katara at first—partly because Katara offered, partly because Jin’s eyes went distant any time the wind sounded like falling debris.

That first night, the ocean was loud enough to drown out the war.

It didn’t drown out the tension.

Aang sat with his knees drawn up, staring at the flicker of the hut’s tiny oil lamp. “So,” he said carefully, “we’re really… doing this.”

Zuko sat across from him, back straight, hands resting on his thighs as if he was waiting for a test. “Yes.”

Sokka pointed between them. “Just so we’re clear,” he said, “if this goes badly, I’m writing a strongly-worded letter to fate.”

Toph smirked. “You can’t write.”

“I can too,” Sokka snapped. “It’s just… mostly pictures.”

Katara shot them both a look, then turned to Zuko. “What’s the plan?” she asked.

Zuko’s jaw tightened. “Basics first,” he said. “Breath. Stance. Control.”

Aang frowned. “I already have breath control.”

Zuko’s eyes flicked up. “Air breath control,” he corrected. “Not fire.”

Iroh, seated off to the side with his own cup of tea, nodded. “Fire is fueled by breath,” he said gently. “But not by force. Not by anger. Not by panic.”

Aang’s hands tightened around his staff. “That’s the part I’m worried about,” he admitted quietly. “Every time I’ve seen fire… it’s been someone trying to hurt us.”

Zuko flinched, shame flashing over his face. Jet’s gaze sharpened at the edge of the room, like he wanted to step in and couldn’t decide where.

Iroh spoke before the silence could turn sharp. “Then we will show you fire as warmth,” he said. “As life.”

Zuko exhaled, slow. “Tomorrow,” he said, tone brisk like he was afraid softness would ruin it, “we start at sunrise.”

Sunrise on the island was a thin gold line over the sea—beautiful and indifferent.

They trained on a flat stretch of rock above the tide line, far enough from the village that no one could hear the sharp cracks of bending or the occasional swears from Sokka. The wind was constant, salt on the skin, and the rock underfoot held a faint, old warmth—like the volcano that had birthed the island never fully went to sleep.

Iroh started with breath.

“Again,” he said, calm as the ocean. “In through the nose. Slow. Down into the belly. Out through the mouth like you are warming your hands.”

Aang did it. His shoulders rose too much. His exhale came too fast.

Iroh corrected him with a gentle tap on the back. “Your breath is running away,” he said. “Bring it home.”

Zuko watched, arms crossed, expression hard to read. When Aang tried again, steadier, Zuko nodded once, approving despite himself.

Katara sat a little way back with Jin, both of them wrapped in blankets against the morning chill. Toph sprawled on a sun-warmed stone like a cat, pretending she wasn’t listening. Sokka tried to help for exactly three minutes before getting bored and deciding “guard duty” was more his lane.

Jin watched the training like it was a story she couldn’t decide whether to believe.

Zuko would demonstrate first: a stance, a breath, a small controlled flame. No showboating. No big arcs. Just a steady flicker, contained and precise. Then Iroh would explain why—how the movement aligned with the breath, how the flame was an extension of the body, not a weapon the body wielded.

When Aang finally tried to produce fire the first time, he hesitated so long his breath shook.

Zuko’s voice cut in, clipped but not cruel. “Stop thinking about burning something,” he said. “Think about warming.”

Aang swallowed. “I don’t know how.”

Iroh smiled softly. “Think of a campfire,” he said. “Think of Katara’s hands after a cold swim. Think of Appa’s fur in winter. Fire as comfort.”

Aang closed his eyes. Inhaled.

Exhaled.

A tiny, trembling flame bloomed over his palm—no bigger than a candle.

Aang’s eyes snapped open, wide.

“It’s… it’s there,” he whispered.

Zuko’s gaze softened in spite of himself. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s there.”

Aang’s face brightened like the sun had moved into him. “I did it!”

Sokka whooped from the sidelines. “He didn’t explode! This is already going better than I expected!”

Toph clapped once. “Congrats, Twinkletoes. You’re now a fancy torch.”

Katara smiled, proud and relieved, though her eyes stayed cautious whenever the flame flickered higher.

Jin looked at Aang’s small flame, then at Zuko.

Zuko was watching Aang like he was seeing something he’d forgotten was possible: fire that wasn’t punishment, fire that wasn’t rage.

And Jin—quietly, painfully—understood why Zuko had always looked shocked by kindness. Why he’d flinched from warmth like it was a trick.

Katara noticed Jin’s gaze and leaned closer, voice low. “You okay?”

Jin blinked, swallowing. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I just… didn’t know he could look like that.”

Katara’s eyes flicked to Zuko too. “Me neither,” she admitted.

That was the beginning.

Not friendship. Not yet.

But the first thread.

Over the next week, the island became routine.

Mornings: training on the rocks. Breath, stance, small controlled flames. Iroh watched like a patient mentor; Zuko corrected like a strict instructor who was learning not to bite. Sometimes they switched roles without noticing—Zuko showing a movement, Iroh catching the emotional snag behind it. Aang improved fast when he wasn’t afraid.

Afternoons: chores, supplies, keeping Appa hidden, blending into village life. Sokka helped fishermen repair nets and pretended it was espionage. Toph wandered the island feeling its bones and declared it “surprisingly honest for a rock.” Katara and Jin gathered water and herbs and occasionally sat with village women to trade stories.

It was in those afternoons that Katara and Jin began to braid themselves into something stronger.

At first, Jin kept her talk small: the market, her favorite dumpling stall (gone), the way Lower Ring kids made games out of nothing. She avoided mentioning the bombs unless she had to.

Katara didn’t push. She just… stayed.

One day they were washing clothes in a freshwater pool above the village, sleeves rolled up, water rippling around their wrists. Katara shaped the water gently, swirling dirt away. Jin watched, quieter than usual.

“I used to think bending was… like magic,” Jin said finally. “Like it only belonged to people who were born special.”

Katara glanced at her. “And now?”

Jin shrugged. “Now I think it’s a lot of responsibility. Everyone looks at you like you’re supposed to fix everything.”

Katara’s mouth twisted. “Yeah,” she said. “They do.”

Jin hesitated. “Do you ever… get tired?”

Katara laughed softly, no humor in it. “All the time.”

Jin nodded like that answer mattered. “Then you’re doing better than most,” she murmured. “Most people pretend they’re never tired.”

Katara’s hands slowed. She looked at Jin more closely—at the way she’d been carrying fear like a heavy basket and refusing to drop it on anyone else.

“You don’t have to pretend with us,” Katara said quietly.

Jin’s throat bobbed. “I know,” she whispered. “I’m… learning.”

That night, Jin woke up from a nightmare shaking and silent. Katara didn’t ask what she’d seen. She just held her until the shaking stopped.

In the morning, Jin brought Katara extra tea like an offering.

Katara took it without comment.

That was how they built it: small mercies, repeated until they held.

Jin also watched Zuko.

Not in the way she had when she’d been falling for “Lee”—soft and hopeful and curious.

This was different. This was watching someone you’d forgiven try to become someone worth forgiving.

She saw the effort in him—the way he swallowed sharp words before they could cut Aang, the way he stepped between Aang and danger even when he pretended it was tactical, the way his shoulders eased by degrees as teaching became less like penance and more like… purpose.

She saw him on the beach at night sometimes, sitting alone with the sea roaring in front of him, staring at his hands like they were evidence. Jet would usually appear after a while—quiet, inevitable—and sit beside him without speaking, like a shadow that had decided to be gentle.

Jin noticed the way Jet’s presence changed Zuko’s breathing.

Not immediately.

Not dramatically.

But enough.

Once, Jin passed them on her way back from the village, arms full of rice and dried fish, and she heard Jet murmur something low.

Zuko’s head tipped down, forehead almost resting on Jet’s shoulder for a brief second—so brief Jin wondered if she’d imagined it.

She didn’t mention it.

Later that day, she sat beside Katara while Aang trained, watching Zuko instruct.

“He’s… trying,” Jin said softly.

Katara’s eyes stayed on Aang’s hands—steady flame, steady breath. “Yeah,” she said. “He is.”

Jin hesitated, then added, “And Jet. He’s trying too. In his own… intense way.”

Katara snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

Jin glanced at her. “Do you hate him?”

Katara paused, honest. “I don’t know,” she said. “I hate what he did. I hate that I trusted him.” She exhaled. “But I also saw him throw himself in front of Azula’s fire without hesitation. So… I don’t know.”

Jin nodded. “He’s loyal,” she said quietly. “But not in a simple way.”

Katara’s gaze flicked to Jin. “You understand them,” she said, not a question.

Jin’s mouth trembled. “I think I do,” she whispered. “I think… they saved each other before either of them knew what saving looked like.”

Katara went quiet. Then, after a moment, she said, “If Zuko hurts Aang—if he hurts any of us—”

“He won’t,” Jin said immediately. Not defensive. Certain.

Katara studied her. “You’re sure?”

Jin looked at Zuko on the rocks, correcting Aang’s stance with a sharp word and then—almost imperceptibly—adjusting his tone, trying again. Watching Iroh’s hand land on Zuko’s shoulder like a reminder. Watching Jet hover at the edge, vigilant but not interfering.

“Yes,” Jin said. “He won’t.”

Katara didn’t fully relax.

But she didn’t argue.

By the end of the second week, Aang could hold a flame steady in both palms without flinching.

Zuko watched it, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You’re controlling it,” Zuko said finally.

Aang grinned. “Yeah!”

Iroh smiled too. “Good,” he said. “Now we teach you when to let it go.”

Aang blinked. “What?”

Zuko’s mouth quirked. “Fire doesn’t just come from anger,” he said. “But it can. That’s the dangerous part.” He stepped closer, voice lowering. “If you feel yourself getting scared… or furious… you stop. You breathe. You don’t push through it.”

Aang nodded, suddenly solemn. “Okay.”

Zuko held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded once, satisfied.

Behind them, Jin watched Zuko’s profile as he spoke—how careful he was being, even when it didn’t look like care.

Jet caught her watching once. Their eyes met.

For a second, Jin thought he might bristle.

Instead, Jet gave her a small, almost respectful nod—an acknowledgment.

Jin surprised herself by nodding back.

Katara saw that exchange and raised an eyebrow. Jin just shrugged, as if to say: we’re all learning.

The training started as Aang’s, but by midday, everyone had realized who the real show was.

They were up on the same stretch of rock above the tide line. The sun was high, the sea loud, and the air carried that faint baked heat that said the island had once been lava.

Aang’s morning firebending drills had wound down; he stood to the side now, sipping water and occasionally making a tiny, proud flame dance over his fingertips when he thought no one was watching.

Iroh clapped his hands once. “Very good, Avatar Aang,” he said. “Now, Zuko.”

Zuko, who had been pretending he was done for the day, stilled. “Me?”

Iroh’s eyes crinkled. “Flame can grow lazy if you do not tend it,” he said. “You must train as well.”

Toph kicked her feet up and grinned from her sun-warmed rock. “Oho. Finally some sparky choreography.”

Sokka plopped down next to her, excited. “If there are cool flips, I’m taking notes.”

Jin and Katara sat together under a scraggly tree just above the rocks, the shade thin and flickering. Jin pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them. She was… trying not to look too obvious about watching Zuko.

She was failing.

Zuko stepped onto the flattest part of the rock, facing the sea. He exhaled once, rolled his shoulders back, and lowered into a familiar stance.

That was the thing: the Gaang had fought Zuko. Seen him angry, frantic, off-balance. They hadn’t really seen him train.

Iroh moved to his side, bare feet planted, hands loose.

“Form of the Dragon’s Breath,” Iroh said. “From the beginning.”

Zuko nodded, jaw tightening—in that way that said he took this completely seriously—and began to move.

It was… different like this.

No yelling, no charging.

Just breath and motion.

He inhaled slow and deep, then stepped forward, arms drawing a circle. Fire bloomed along his forearms in a smooth, rolling wave—not a blast, but a ribbon tracing his movements, bright against the blue sky.

Aang’s eyes widened. “Whoa.”

“His weight is centered,” Toph murmured, listening through the stone. “He’s not… all over the place like he is when he’s mad.”

Zuko pivoted, back foot sliding, fire trailing from his palm in a precise arc. He kicked, heel cutting the air; a thin crescent of flame followed the line of his leg—controlled, sharp, and gone as soon as the form finished.

Iroh murmured small corrections as he went. “Lower your stance. Breathe through the strike, not before. Do not chase the fire—let it follow.”

Zuko adjusted each time, the changes small but noticeable. His movements smoothed out; the stuttery, angry edges they were used to seeing sanded down into something almost… graceful.

Katara found herself watching his posture more than the flame—how much discipline it must have taken to get that level of control when the people teaching you had no mercy.

Jin watched his face.

Out here, with the sea wind in his hair and the light catching the edges of his scar, he looked younger and older at once. Focused. Completely present.

Not a boy chasing something.

A boy standing where he was and owning it.

Iroh stepped back when the form finished, nodding. “Better,” he said. “Again. Think of your breath as the tide.”

Zuko went again.

This time, Aang mirrored some of the footwork quietly in his corner, no flame in his hands, just movement. Zuko noticed, eyes flicking over once, and the brief flicker of surprised pride that crossed his face made Jin’s chest ache.

They went through three forms—offense, defense, redirection. By the end, Zuko’s hair stuck to his temples with sweat, his chest rose and fell fast, but his flame was steady.

Iroh smiled, pleased. “Good. Rest.”

Zuko exhaled, letting the last little flame die from his fingertips.

“That was…” Aang hesitated, searching for a word that wasn’t scary. “Beautiful,” he decided.

Zuko blinked. “It’s just training.”

“Yeah,” Aang said. “And it was beautiful.”

Zuko’s ears went pink. He busied himself with wrapping his forearms in cloth, pretending he’d heard nothing.

Toph whistled low. “Okay, I’ll admit it. That was pretty cool.”

Sokka jabbed a thumb at Zuko. “I still like it better when he slips on his own fire and falls down, but this was okay.”

Jin didn’t say anything aloud.

She just smiled to herself, small and a little stunned.

The swords came out afterward.

They’d gone back down to the beach, the rock now too hot for bare feet. Appa napped in the cove, snoring gently. The village kids had gotten used to their “strange visiting family” and mostly left them alone unless Sokka was telling a story.

Jet had been practicing alone for a while, farther down the sand—hook swords flashing in the sun, movements sharp and quick, each strike a line carved into the air.

Sokka watched, fascinated. “I want those,” he told anyone who would listen.

“You’d cut your own legs off,” Katara said.

Toph smirked. “I’d allow it for science.”

Zuko finished wrapping his forearms and glanced over.

Jet was good. He always had been. Agile, fluid, using the curved blades to catch and redirect imaginary blows.

Zuko leaned against a rock, watching.

Jet spun, hooked one blade into the other, and dragged a line in the sand with a flourish.

Then he stilled, breathing hard, and without looking said, “Enjoying the show, my lord?”

Zuko’s mouth twitched. “You left your left side open on that last turn.”

Jet snorted and turned to face him fully, one brow arched. “You volunteering to demonstrate?”

The challenge hung there, sharp and familiar.

The Gaang perked up like prairie dogs.

“Oh yes,” Sokka breathed. “Do it. Do it. Fight.”

Katara pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is how people lose toes.”

Jin watched Zuko, half amused, half… something else. “Do you spar a lot?” she asked Katara quietly.

Katara sighed. “They spar all the time. With fire. Without fire. With swords. With words. It’s like… their love language is dangerous.”

Jin’s cheeks warmed. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I noticed.”

Zuko pushed off the rock, rolling his shoulders. “You’ll just complain when you lose,” he told Jet.

“Bold of you to assume anything,” Jet said, grinning now, the last of the formal stiffness dropping away.

Iroh, sitting on a driftwood log, sipped his tea and watched them with an expression that said he’d seen this a thousand times and it never ceased to entertain him. “Do try not to maim each other too badly,” he called. “Dinner will be harder with missing hands.”

Zuko snorted. “We’ll keep our fingers.”

He went to where their gear was stacked and pulled out his own swords: a pair of Fire Nation dao, plain but well-made. He weighed them once in his hands, testing the balance. The metal caught the light, bright and clean.

Aang scooted back with Appa as an impromptu ring cleared in the sand. “Okay, ground rule,” Aang said quickly. “No firebending in this spar. Just steel. Please.”

“Agreed,” Zuko said.

Jet twirled a hook sword, grin sharp. “Yeah. I’d hate to singe the prince.”

“That’s because you know it’d be the last thing you ever did,” Zuko shot back, but there was no real heat in it.

They stepped into the circle.

They both shifted automatically into something old: feet set, knees bent, weight balanced. They raised their swords in identical salutes—so formal and mirrored that Sokka actually shivered.

“They practiced that,” he whispered. “I know they did.”

Toph listened to the sand under their boots, the way their heartbeats jumped in sync. “No,” she said. “That’s just muscle memory.”

“Ew,” Sokka said. “Gross.”

Katara elbowed him.

Iroh’s voice drifted over, gentle and instructive even now. “Remember,” he said, “this is training. Precision over power.”

Zuko nodded once.

Jet’s grin didn’t fade, but his eyes sharpened.

A beat.

Then they moved.

Jet struck first—swift and testing, one hook sword arcing in toward Zuko’s shoulder while the other dipped low. Zuko stepped aside, parried high, blade meeting Jet’s with a clear clang, then slid the second strike away with his off-hand sword.

Sand scuffed under their boots.

They broke apart, circled.

“Still favor your right,” Jet said, breath easy. “You’re predictable.”

Zuko feinted left, cut right. Jet blocked, twisted, tried to catch Zuko’s blade in the curve of his hook.

“Predictable,” Zuko said, “doesn’t mean beatable.”

The next exchange was faster.

Jet pressed, hook swords slashing in tight arcs, trying to get inside Zuko’s guard where curved blades could trap and pull. Zuko gave ground, parrying, his movements economical—no big swings, just precise deflections and small ripostes that nicked Jet’s sleeves.

Jin watched, heart in her throat, as the distance between them closed and opened in a rhythm that looked half-choreographed and half like an argument only they understood.

At one point, Jet stepped in close enough that their chests nearly brushed as their blades locked between them. For a moment they were almost nose to nose, breathing hard.

“Having fun yet?” Jet murmured.

Zuko’s mouth curved, just a little. “You’re slowing down,” he said.

Jet’s eyes flashed. “You wish.”

He abruptly dropped his weight, trying to hook one of Zuko’s ankles out from under him.

Zuko hopped over it—too graceful for someone who claimed he was all focus and no flair—and brought the flat of one sword down across the back of Jet’s hook in a sharp tap that forced him to let go.

The hook sword spun into the sand.

Sokka whooped. “One down!”

Toph grinned. “Hook boy’s losing his hooks.”

Jet didn’t seem rattled. If anything, he looked more alive. He shifted his remaining sword to a two-handed grip and changed style—less orthodox now, more street. He darted in at unexpected angles, using his free hand to grab and shove.

He caught Zuko’s shoulder once, fingers digging into muscle as he used the contact to swing behind him, hook sword sliding dangerously close to Zuko’s throat before Zuko ducked and twisted away.

“Careful,” Jet breathed near his ear. “Uncle will scold me if I scratch up the prince.”

Zuko spun, parried, stepped in close enough to speak without anyone else hearing. “You just want an excuse to fuss over me,” he muttered.

Jet’s grin flashed, sharp and quick. “Guilty.”

Jin made a small, choked noise and hid it in her hands. Katara gave her a look that was equal parts exasperation and same.

They broke apart again, sand kicking up around their boots. Sweat slicked Zuko’s neck; strands of hair stuck to Jet’s forehead. Their chests rose and fell faster now.

Iroh watched, eyes half-lidded, reading every choice. “He is more patient now,” he murmured to no one in particular. “Before, he always chased the opening too early.”

Zuko feinted high, then, when Jet went to parry, stepped in instead of away.

He used the flat of his blade to shove Jet’s hook sword wide, then pivoted his whole body, shoulder to Jet’s chest, hip to hip, and swept Jet’s back leg.

Jet hit the sand with a grunt, flat on his back, breath punched out of him.

Zuko followed him down, one knee planted firmly beside Jet’s hip, both swords crossed in an X at Jet’s throat—not touching, but close enough that Jet could feel the cool whisper of steel.

The cave-silence that followed was shattered only by the surf and Sokka whispering, “Oh my spirits,” like he’d just witnessed something wildly indecent.

Toph cackled. “Pinned,” she announced. “Really pinned.”

Jet stared up at Zuko, chest heaving, sand sticking to the sweat at his temples. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Zuko’s hair fell forward a little, shadowing his eyes. His mouth was set as if he could hold his own victory at bay by not smiling.

“You yield,” Zuko said, voice steady but low.

Jet’s lips parted. The tension in his arms eased very slightly—just enough to show he’d chosen it.

“Yes,” he said, still breathing hard. The flippant edge dropped out of his voice; what was left was rough and too sincere. “I yield.”

A beat.

Then, with a wicked, tiny smile, he added, “My lord.”

Zuko’s ears went crimson.

He scowled down at Jet, but his swords didn’t move. The Gaang couldn’t see the flicker in his eyes from where they sat, the way the title landed differently in the sand and spray and not in a palace hall.

Toph could feel the charge between them through the ground. “Okay,” she announced. “You two are definitely making this weird.”

Sokka flung an arm over his face. “WHY is everything flirty and dangerous all the time with you murderous Fire Nation people?”

Katara put her face in her hands. “Please stand up before someone dies of secondhand embarrassment.”

Jin hid a smile in her blanket, cheeks warm, heart doing a strange, shy flutter.

Zuko finally huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh if he weren’t trying so hard not to show it.

He pushed off Jet in one smooth motion and stepped back, sliding his swords into their sheaths in one practiced cross.

Jet stayed on his back for another second, staring up at the sky like maybe it would make fun of him less than his friends.

Then he sat up, brushed sand off his hair, and accepted the hand Zuko held out without hesitation.

Their palms met; Zuko pulled him up. For a second, longer than necessary, neither of them let go.

Iroh smiled into his tea. “Excellent,” he said serenely. “You are both still in one piece. And we have learned something.”

Sokka threw his hands up. “We have learned that they enjoy trying to kill each other.”

Iroh chuckled. “No,” he corrected. “We have learned that Zuko can be precise without losing control. And that Jet trusts him enough to fall.”

Jet rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.

Zuko glanced at Jin and found her watching him, eyes bright, a small, proud smile on her lips.

His shoulders loosened a fraction.

Katara caught that look, caught Jin’s blush, caught Jet’s deliberate lean just a little closer to Zuko’s side as they walked back up the beach, and sighed.

“What?” Sokka demanded.

“Nothing,” Katara said. “Just… this is the weirdest family I’ve ever had.”

Toph grinned. “You love it.”

Katara didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Because up on a forgotten Fire Nation island, with a dragon of an uncle, a prince learning to be something else, a bodyguard who’d chosen his place, a city girl with soot still in her hair, and the Avatar holding flame in his hands without fear—

it did, for the first time, feel a little like a family.

A loud, flirty, occasionally stabby family.

But a family all the same.

Chapter Text

The palace courtyard was packed.

Fire Nation citizens in formal red, soldiers in dress armor, ministers in tiered robes, servants pressed up against the columns. The royal dais had been polished until it shone. The old dragon throne loomed, beautiful and terrible.

Ozai was nowhere to be seen—locked away under heavy guard, stripped of bending, stripped of title. He was now just a man in a room.

Today was for his replacement.

Zuko stood just inside the palace doors, heart beating so hard he could feel it in his throat. His formal robes were heavy on his shoulders—deep crimson and black with gold trim, the flame sigil embroidered over his heart. His hair had been tied back, a small crown already resting on top of his head as a placeholder.

Jet stood at his right shoulder, in Fire Nation guard armor.

He looked disturbingly natural in it.

The armor had been altered—no royal insignia, no rank marks. Just a plain, functional set with dark red lacquer and black leather. His hair was pulled back, his posture perfect. To anyone else, he looked like any other palace bodyguard.

To Zuko, he looked like a promise.

Jin stood slightly behind Zuko’s left, in a simple but elegant dress Iroh had bought in the harbor: deep green with red stitching, her hair pinned up with a single gold clip. She had a place of honor not quite defined by protocol; no one knew where to put her in the neat grid of titles and hierarchies, so she stood where Zuko wanted her—close.

The Gaang was there too, in clothes that tried very hard to be formal and failed in charming ways.

Aang wore modified Fire Nation robes in orange and yellow, the arrow on his head uncovered, a deliberate statement: Avatar, not subject. Katara had smoothed her hair into a Water Tribe knot but wore a Fire Nation dress over her blues—a living treaty. Sokka adjusted his borrowed formal sash every thirty seconds. Toph looked utterly unimpressed by the palace grandeur and had dirt on her sleeves. No one dared comment.

Iroh was the calm center of it all, in a simple robe of red and white, the Lotus tile tucked somewhere in his sleeve as always.

A fanfare of horn and flute rose from the courtyard.

Iroh turned to Zuko, eyes warm and proud.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No,” Zuko said honestly. His hands were sweating inside his sleeves. “But I’m going anyway.”

Iroh’s smile deepened. “That,” he said, “is what makes you worthy.”

He stepped back.

Jet leaned in just enough that his shoulder brushed Zuko’s. Under the clamor, his voice was a steady thread.

“Whatever happens out there,” Jet murmured, “I’m at your back. My lord.”

This time, the title didn’t make Zuko flinch.

He let it settle around him like armor he’d chosen for himself, not one forced onto him.

Jin’s fingers brushed his, feather-light. When he glanced at her, she smiled—nervous, yes, but certain.

“Go,” she whispered. “Make it better.”

Zuko inhaled.

Then he stepped out into the light.

The roar of the crowd hit him like a wall. Not joy, exactly. Not yet. A murmur of curiosity, relief, suspicion, hope—and fear. Always fear.

He walked down the central path, every eye on him. Jet moved just behind and to the side, the perfect shadow. Aang and the others followed a pace further back, visible and important, but not the focus.

At the foot of the wide steps to the dais, Zuko stopped.

He looked up at the throne where his father had sat, where his grandfather had ordered sieges, where his ancestors had turned the world red.

He thought of cloud-watching on Uncle’s hill. Of Jin’s laugh under lanterns. Of Aang’s face when he’d made that first, careful flame. Of Jet holding him on that ship deck, breathing with him when panic had turned his chest into a furnace.

He thought of Azula—

and chose not to let that be the last image.

Iroh climbed the steps first to stand by the throne, then turned to address the crowd.

“Citizens of the Fire Nation,” he said, voice carrying easily over the courtyard. “The war is over.”

A murmur. Shock, relief, disbelief.

“Our armies will stand down,” Iroh continued. “Our fleets will return home. We will no longer seek to conquer others. Instead, we will seek to heal.”

He gestured to Zuko.

“Prince Zuko has returned,” he said. “Not as a banished child, not as a weapon—but as a man who has seen the cost of our nation’s choices and wishes to lead us on a new path.”

Zuko’s feet felt rooted to the stone. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t move.

Then Jet’s hand brushed the small of his back, a barely-there pressure.

Zuko stepped forward and climbed.

Each stair felt like a decision.

At the top, he kneeled in front of Iroh—his uncle, his teacher, the man who had saved him more times than he could count. Tradition demanded this posture. The boy he’d been once would have done anything for this moment.

The man he was now understood what it meant to kneel to someone by choice.

Iroh took the crown from his head—the small, symbolic one—and lifted the proper royal headpiece from a silk cushion. The circle of gold, the topknot holder with the stylized flame.

Zuko remembered the weight of it from childhood, when his hair had been bound like a badge of ownership. He’d cut it off once. Thrown it into the wind and watched it burn.

Now, as Iroh placed it back on his head, it felt… different.

Heavy, yes.

But not a collar.

A promise.

Iroh’s voice dropped, for Zuko’s ears alone. “Never forget,” he whispered, “that this crown does not make you worthy. You make it worthy.”

Zuko’s throat tightened.

Then Iroh stepped back and spoke loudly.

“Rise,” he said, “Fire Lord Zuko.”

The title hit him like a wave.

He rose.

For a terrifying second, the courtyard was utterly still.

No cheers.

No cries.

Just thousands of eyes, waiting to see who he would be.

Zuko stepped to the edge of the dais.

He could feel Jet’s gaze on his back. Jin’s eyes. Aang’s, Katara’s, Sokka’s, Toph’s. The entire world holding its breath.

He took one.

“I was the son of Fire Lord Ozai,” Zuko began. His voice shook once, then steadied. “I was raised to believe that honor meant conquering. That strength meant never apologizing. That the Fire Nation had the right to take whatever it wanted.”

A ripple through the crowd. Uneasy.

Zuko’s jaw clenched. He went on.

“I spent years chasing the Avatar,” he said. “Not because I believed in my father’s war, but because I wanted him to look at me and not see a failure.”

He looked at Aang then—small, bright, impossibly strong.

“I was wrong,” Zuko said, letting the words burn on his tongue. “I was wrong about the war. I was wrong about the Avatar. I was wrong about what honor is.”

A murmur again—this time sharper, like a knife scraping bone.

“We have hurt the world,” Zuko said. “We’ve burned forests, razed cities, stolen children. We’ve called it progress. We were wrong.”

Jin’s hands clenched in her skirt. Katara’s eyes shone. Sokka stared, half in awe, half in “is he really saying this out loud in front of everybody.”

Zuko inhaled once, like he was walking into a fire on purpose.

“As Fire Lord,” he said, “I will end this war. Not with a bigger fire, but with rebuilding. We will return lands that were taken. We will make amends where we can. We will stop pretending that the world exists to feed our flames.”

He swept the courtyard with his gaze.

“Some of you may not like this,” he said bluntly. “You will say I’m weak. That I have forgotten our nation’s greatness.”

His scar seemed to burn hotter as he spoke.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said. “I just don’t believe greatness comes from fear anymore.”

Silence.

Then, from somewhere near the back, a voice shouted, “Agni Kai!”

Another voice hissed it down. The tension shivered.

Zuko straightened. “If you challenge me to an Agni Kai for saying this,” he said, “know that I will answer. But also know this: I do not fear you. I fear becoming my father. I fear leaving the world worse than I found it. I will not let that happen.”

Toph grinned. “Oh, he’s feeling himself now.”

Iroh’s eyes shone with tears he didn’t bother to hide.

Aang stepped forward, staff in hand, voice clear. “The Avatar stands with Fire Lord Zuko,” he said. “We will work together to restore balance.”

Katara moved to his side. “The Southern Water Tribe stands with him,” she said.

Sokka cleared his throat and puffed his chest. “And the Southern Water Tribe’s idea guy does too,” he added.

Toph stomped, the stone underfoot vibrating. “The world’s greatest earthbender stands with him,” she said. “And if you don’t like it, I’ll rearrange your courtyard.”

Laughter rippled at that, breaking the tension just enough.

Jet—still at his post just behind Zuko’s shoulder—didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence there, in armor that used to symbolize everything he hated, said enough.

Jin stepped forward from her place, heart pounding. She had no title. No tribe. No bending.

“I’m just Jin of Ba Sing Se,” she said, voice carrying farther than she expected. “The Lower Ring. One of the people your war hurt.”

Heads turned.

She swallowed and went on. “I forgive him,” she said, nodding toward Zuko. “Because he came back. Because he saved me. Because he’s trying to make it right.”

Her eyes met Zuko’s.

“And I’ll hold him accountable,” she added, a small, fierce smile. “Because someone should.”

A surprised, nervous laugh rolled through the crowd.

Zuko’s mouth curved, just a little.

There it was: the shape of his reign.

Not unquestioned obedience.

Not fear.

But people who loved him enough to challenge him.

He drew himself up, feeling the weight of the crown, the weight of eyes, the weight of Jet’s gaze hot between his shoulder blades like a different kind of fire.

“I can’t undo what we’ve done,” Zuko said. “But I can choose what we do next.”

He bowed his head—not to the crowd, not to the throne—but to the world beyond the caldera.

“To those we’ve hurt,” he said. “To the Air Nomads. To the Water Tribes. To the Earth Kingdom. To my own people who have suffered under this war. I swear: the Fire Nation will be different under my rule.”

The words settled like embers.

At first, there was nothing.

Then someone near the front—an old woman with deep lines and a faded scar on her arm—raised her fist once, sharp and deliberate.

“Fire Lord Zuko!” she cried.

Like a spark in dry grass, the shout spread.

“Fire Lord Zuko!”

“Fire Lord Zuko!”

Not universal. Not unanimous. But enough.

Zuko let it wash over him, not as a victory, but as a beginning.

He turned his head slightly.

Jet’s eyes met his for a heartbeat—proud, fierce, utterly his.

“Yes, my lord,” Jet mouthed silently, without being asked.

The words didn’t sound like chains anymore.

They sounded like a future.

Jin’s smile, Katara’s steadiness, Aang’s bright, stubborn hope, Sokka’s loud planning, Toph’s irreverent strength, Iroh’s unshakable love—all of it wrapped around him like a cloak.

The war was over.

Chapter Text

A year changed the Fire Nation in ways that didn’t show up in banners.

It showed up in quieter things.

In ships returning home without trophies lashed to their decks. In burned-out villages receiving lumber instead of soldiers. In letters—thousands of them—sealed with the new Fire Lord’s crest and addressed to people who had every reason to burn them unopened.

And in the palace, it showed up in the way the halls sounded different: fewer marching boots, more footsteps that hesitated at doorways like the people inside were still learning what peace felt like.

Zuko hated ceremonies.

He hated the robes, the sitting still, the speeches full of words that meant nothing if you didn’t live them. But he’d learned something in the last year: ceremonies weren’t only for rulers.

They were for people.

People needed symbols to hold onto when reality felt too big.

So he stood on the dais anyway, crown heavy on his head, hands clasped behind his back to keep from fidgeting.

The courtyard was packed. Nobles in red and gold. Citizens in plain clothes who’d never been invited into this space before. Generals who watched the exits and the sky at the same time. Ministers with nervous smiles and ink-stained fingers from rewriting policy until sunrise.

And at the base of the steps—exactly where Zuko had knelt a year ago—Jin waited.

She wore Fire Nation silk now, but not the kind that screamed wealth. Deep crimson with subtle green embroidery at the cuffs—an echo of Ba Sing Se that she didn’t hide. Her hair was pinned up in a style the court approved of, but a single, simple hairpin caught the light: not royal, not ancient, just hers.

She looked calm.

Zuko knew better.

Her hands were steady at her sides, but he could see the faint tension in her throat when she swallowed. He could see the way her eyes swept the crowd once—measuring—before finding him again, and softening.

Behind her stood Iroh, serene as ever, dressed simply, eyes bright with a kind of proud that made Zuko’s chest ache.

And behind Zuko, just out of the center of attention, was Jet.

Formal armor. No insignia. Dark lacquer gleaming. Hair tied back, posture flawless.

Stillness like a blade in its sheath.

Zuko didn’t look at him too long. If he did, he’d forget where he was.

The drums sounded—low and steady.

The Fire Sages stepped forward, carrying the ceremonial sash: red, gold-threaded, and old enough to have watched dynasties rise and rot. It was the symbol that made it official to everyone who needed symbols.

A priest’s voice rang out over the courtyard. “Today, the Fire Nation recognizes its Fire Lady.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd—curiosity, approval, suspicion, awe. Some faces had softened over the year. Others still held their doubt like armor.

Jin climbed the steps one by one.

Zuko watched her with the kind of focus he used to reserve for battle. Not because he feared she would falter—he knew she wouldn’t—but because he feared what it meant. The way a palace could swallow you. The way it could turn kindness into a weakness people tried to exploit.

Jin reached the top step and stopped, level with him.

For one heartbeat, the court, the crowd, the world fell away.

Her eyes met his.

You okay? her look asked.

Zuko gave her the smallest nod. You?

Jin’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. I’m here, aren’t I?

Then she turned to face the assembly.

The Fire Sages lifted the sash.

Iroh’s voice, gentle and iron-warm at once, carried from where he stood. “Jin of Ba Sing Se,” he said, using her full name with deliberate care, “you have chosen to stand beside Fire Lord Zuko. Do you accept the responsibility of Fire Lady—not as ornament, but as partner?”

Jin’s voice didn’t shake when she answered. “I accept.”

A hush settled.

The sash was placed across her shoulders and secured at her waist. It didn’t swallow her; it didn’t erase her. It looked, somehow, like it belonged—because she stood as if she’d decided it belonged.

Zuko stepped closer. The protocol required it: the Fire Lord acknowledging the Fire Lady.

But his voice, when he spoke, was not court-scripted.

“Jin,” he said quietly, so only she could hear, “I’m—”

“I know,” she murmured, eyes still forward. “Breathe.”

Zuko did. Once. Twice.

Then he spoke to the crowd.

“Today isn’t about a title,” he said, voice clear. “It’s about the kind of nation we’re building. Jin reminds me—every day—who this war hurt. Who the palace forgot. Who deserves to be seen.”

He paused, jaw tightening as he pushed past old instincts.

“She will challenge me,” Zuko said. “She already has. She will tell me when I’m wrong. She will refuse to let comfort become cruelty. And I—” his voice steadied, “—will listen.”

The crowd stirred again, but different this time. Less fear. More… interest. Some approval. Some unsettled nobles, realizing the palace was no longer a place where only palace-born voices mattered.

Jin turned her head slightly toward him, eyes warm.

Then she faced the courtyard and lifted her chin.

“I’m not Fire Nation,” she said plainly, and the boldness of it sent another ripple through the crowd. “I didn’t grow up in these halls. I didn’t learn your customs the way you did.”

She let that sit, then continued.

“But I’ve learned what it costs when rulers forget the people outside the walls,” Jin said. “I’ve lived it. And I won’t let this palace forget again.”

A beat.

“And if you’re wondering whether I’m afraid,” Jin added, voice carrying, “I am.”

A surprised laugh—small, uncertain—bubbled from somewhere, quickly swallowed.

Jin’s eyes didn’t waver.

“I’m afraid because it matters,” she said. “I’m afraid because the Fire Nation is learning a new way to be, and new ways are fragile at first.” Her gaze swept the crowd. “But I’m here. And I’m staying.”

That landed.

Not like a speech.

Like a promise.

The drums began again—slow, ceremonial. The Sages stepped back.

And then, before the murmurs could regain their bite, Jet stepped forward.

It wasn’t part of the ceremony.

Which meant everyone noticed.

The crowd stiffened: a guard moving without being prompted, armor catching light, eyes steady and unreadable.

Zuko’s posture shifted instinctively, ready—until he recognized what he was doing and forced himself to stop. Not every movement meant danger anymore.

Jet stopped a few paces from the dais and dropped to one knee.

The sound of it—armor against stone—rang through the courtyard like a bell.

Some nobles bristled, confused. A few looked offended, as if a guard had no right to interrupt. A couple of soldiers watched with quiet respect, recognizing a vow when they saw one.

Jet bowed his head.

His voice, when it came, was clear and formal—palace-perfect.

“Fire Lord Zuko,” he said.

Then he turned his head just slightly, acknowledging Jin without looking away from the oath itself, as if to name the truth correctly.

“Fire Lady Jin.”

Zuko’s throat tightened.

Jin’s fingers curled into her sash.

Jet’s hand pressed to his chest in the old guard salute.

“I swear my blade, my body, and my life,” Jet said, “to the protection of the Fire Lord and Fire Lady.”

He paused—just long enough for the weight of the next words to register.

“To protect your reign from those who would burn it down,” Jet continued, voice steady, “and to protect your hearts from those who would use them.”

A soft, almost invisible tremor ran through Zuko’s breath.

Jin’s eyes shone, but she held her expression steady—Fire Lady composure even as the human beneath it cracked open.

Jet lifted his head a fraction, gaze finally rising to them—sharp, loyal, and unflinching.

“I will not fail you,” he said.

The courtyard held its breath.

Zuko stepped forward, just enough that the crowd could see his face clearly.

Jet was not just a guard.

He was a statement: that Zuko didn’t pretend strength meant isolation anymore. That he didn’t pretend he could do this alone. That loyalty wasn’t something to own—it was something to earn.

Zuko’s voice came out low, rough around the edges. “Jet,” he said.

The title my lord hovered in the air like it used to.

Jet didn’t say it.

Not here.

Not in front of everyone.

He only said, with the same clarity he’d used to swear his life: “Command me.”

Zuko’s hand hovered for a heartbeat—then he reached down and clasped Jet’s forearm, pulling him up.

It wasn’t part of the script.

But neither was half of what had saved them.

Jet rose, smooth and controlled. When he stood again behind them, the shape of the triangle was unmistakable: Fire Lord, Fire Lady, and the shadow sworn to keep them alive.

In the front row, Iroh’s eyes glistened with quiet satisfaction.

Katara—standing with Aang off to the side, present but not center—watched Jin with a softness that hadn’t existed a year ago. Jin had become something impossible: a bridge that didn’t deny either side of the gap.

Sokka leaned toward Toph and whispered, “So… is this how monarchies work? You just… appoint a girlfriend and a knife boy and call it stability?”

Toph whispered back, delighted, “Shut up, it’s working.”

Aang smiled gently, eyes bright. “It’s balance,” he said, like he believed it with his whole chest.

The ceremony moved on—more words, more drums, more tradition.

But the moment that mattered had already happened.

Later, when the courtyard emptied and the palace doors shut and the world stopped watching for a few precious minutes, Zuko finally let his shoulders drop.

They stood in a quiet corridor just off the main hall: Zuko still wearing the crown, Jin still wearing the sash, Jet still in armor—because sometimes it was easier to keep the layers on until you were sure no one could reach you.

Jin exhaled first. “That was terrifying,” she said, voice small now that the crowd was gone.

Zuko let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob got into a fight and neither won. “You were perfect.”

Jin’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare call me perfect like you’re about to spiral.”

Zuko blinked, caught, then huffed. “Fine. You were… incredibly brave.”

Jin leaned in and pressed her forehead to his for a second. “So were you.”

Jet cleared his throat—soft, polite.

They both turned.

Jet’s face was neutral, but his eyes were too honest. “You should know,” he said quietly, “that I meant every word.”

Zuko’s throat tightened again. “I know.”

Jin stepped closer to Jet too, reaching out and squeezing his wrist—brief, grounding, grateful. “We know,” she echoed.

Jet’s jaw flexed like he didn’t know what to do with gratitude that wasn’t a reward or a command.

So he chose the only thing that felt safe.

He bowed his head slightly. “Then we proceed,” he said.

Zuko’s mouth twitched. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jet’s eyes flicked up. “Yes,” he said, “my—” He stopped himself, glanced at Jin, and corrected smoothly, “—Fire Lord.”

Zuko’s ears went pink.

Jin laughed, soft and warm, and that laugh filled the corridor like sunlight.