Chapter Text
Amon is a wreck. His room is a wreck, and worse, he’s no closer to making a decision than he was when he started. The sound of someone clearing their throat turns his attention away from the mess of clothes strewn about every available surface.
Tarrlok stands in the doorway with a sheaf of papers, observing the destruction with one eyebrow raised. “Seen an assassin in your wardrobe?” he asks.
Amon glowers at him, though it’s probably not apparent under the mask. “Did you want something?” he snaps.
Tarrlok waves the papers. “Just wanted to go over some a few new proposals with you. I see I came at a bad time.”
“I have an appointment to go to. You’re welcome to come back this evening.” Amon turns away from his brother and picks up the same shirt he’s picked up and discarded at least thirty times previous.
“Okaaay,” Tarrlok says slowly, not heeding, or not caring about the obvious dismissal. “An appointment... or a date?”
Amon turns his head back to his brother irritably. “Go away, Tarrlok.”
Tarrlok leans against the doorframe, looking entertained. “What’s wrong with what you usually wear?”
Amon huffs in frustration, tossing the shirt in his hands over his shoulder and rifling through another pile of clothes. “Nothing,” he snaps. “I just thought--maybe a change might be--”
“Less conspicuous?” Tarrlok asks. “Good luck with that. Unless you wanna ditch the mask?”
Amon rather wants to strangle his brother, a feeling he is growing more and more accustomed to by the day. “I was thinking less threatening,” he says helplessly.
“Nope,” Tarrlok says. “I think that mask probably makes young children cry.”
“I’m not ditching the mask,” Amon snaps. “Now, unless you plan on being of some actual help, get out.”
Tarrlok smirks. “Well, good luck, Fearless Leader.”
Amon chucks a boot at him with a growl, but Tarrlok has already swept out into the hall, laughing.
Amon turns back to the mess he’s made, just about ready to rip his own hair out.
Korra, meanwhile, is also rummaging through her dresser.
“I don’t know,” she says, frowning. She pulls a long sleeved shirt out. “I think I could hide another knife if I wore this one. What do you think?”
Naga tilts her head at Korra, who’s holding the shirt up for her to see.
“Okay, you’re right. Three knives is probably enough, and I probably won't even have to use them.”
Korra looks out her window at the bay, looking to see if the ferry from Republic City has embarked yet. “Okay, Naga, I’ll be back in a little bit,” she says, scratching between the polar bear dog’s ears.
She doesn’t in any way, shape or form want it to look like she’s waiting for Amon by going up to the dock where the ferry will come in. But she more doesn’t want to deal with any questions from Tenzin and the kids about his presence on the island. The sooner she can get on the ferry and get it headed back to the city, the better.
When the ferry actually does come in, Korra doesn’t see any trace of Amon. She searches for his form amidst the crew, but doesn’t see him. She’s not sure how she feels. Has he just stood her up?
But no--
She sees his mask, bone white against the gray of his hood, and her pulse leaps. He’s dressed differently, she notices, which is why it had taken her so long to pick him out. He’s traded in his typical militaristic uniform for black boots and trousers with a gray, hooded tunic.
She hops into the boat, hesitating for a moment. She doesn’t really have any desire to go over to him. What is she supposed to say?
“Good afternoon, Korra,” Amon says, when Korra finally steels herself enough to go walk over to him.
He’s standing by the edge of the boat, looking out over the water. Korra looks at it too, wondering what he’s thinking.
“Hey,” she replies belatedly, entirely too stiff. She wishes terribly that she were any good at hiding how much he still frightens her.
There’s silence between them for a long time, and Korra wonders where Amon’s usual chattiness has run off to. He usually has plenty to say to her, so this reticence is a little unnerving.
Korra tries looking at him out of the corner of her eye. She likes this outfit better. He’s still big, but he seems slimmer and a little less intimidating. More human.
“How old are you?” Korra asks finally. It’s a question she’s been dying to know the answer to.
Amon’s head turns fractionally towards her, but it’s a moment before he answers. “Forty.”
Korra coughs to cover her surprise. That’s fucking old. “Wow,” Korra says, at a loss for words. “That’s… old.”
Korra thinks she hears Amon huff something that might be a laugh. “It’s not old,” he protests, sounding amused more than anything else. “Just older than you.”
It’s different, hearing his voice like this, with actual emotion coloring his words. Korra’s not sure how to feel about it.
“Twice as old as me,” Korra corrects. “More than twice as old as me. Haven’t you heard the half your age plus seven rule? You shouldn’t be dating anyone younger than twenty-seven. And I’m ten years younger than that.”
“I can do basic math, Korra,” Amon says wryly. “And girls younger than you get married to men my age all the time.”
Korra crosses her arms. “Yeah, maybe in bass-ackwards Northern Water Tribe villages,” she snorts. “I’m Southern Water Tribe. We’re not about that.”
Amon hmms, still sounding entirely too amused. He doesn’t have one of his typical clever comebacks,though, so Korra counts that as a point for herself. Finally.
“Speaking of Water Tribes,” Korra says, leaning forward and resting her arms on the railing, “have you ever even tried sea prunes? They’re kind of an acquired taste. Just so that you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“They’re a favorite of mine,” Amon admits, “from my childhood.”
Korra pauses for a minute, the gears turning in her head. “When did you get the chance to try sea prunes as a kid?” she asks. “I thought you grew up in the Earth Nation or something. Sea prunes aren’t exactly easy to come by outside of the poles.” She tries not to be too obvious about watching for his reaction, wondering if she’s caught him in a lie.
“You’re right, Korra. I did grow up in the Earth Kingdom, but my mother was born in the Northern Water Tribe,” he says smoothly, completely unphased. “She ran away from home to be with my father. We couldn’t afford a lot of luxuries, but sea prunes were one that my mother let herself indulge in when she could, and I grew to like them, too.”
He doesn’t relish lying to her, but he tells himself he has no other options.
Korra’s disappointed, mouth twisting into a frown. She desperately wants to find something in his story that will prove him a liar, wrong about bending, wrong about her.
And that’s when it comes to her. If she really wants to pry apart his reasoning and find its flaws, he’s already provided her with the in she needs. If she wants to take it. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye and thinks be the leaf. Her heart leaps, but the idea of letting him get close isn’t as frightening as it once was.
“So,” Korra says, nodding, half to herself, “Northern Water Tribe, huh? My uncle’s the chief up there.”
“I’m aware,” Amon says.
Korra watches him, wondering what Amon’s plans are for the rest of the world. As far as Korra knows, no one else has a power like his. He’s only one man, what’s he going to do, travel the world until each and every bender is ‘equalized’? Maybe he has specific people in mind first, like leaders. Like Unalaq. The thought makes Korra nervous.
Amon turns his head to look at her when she goes quiet for a bit. “Something wrong?”
Her face is pensive, and when she looks at him, her blue eyes are uncharacteristically serious, like deep, still pools that have monsters lurking in their depths. The look passes after a moment, when Korra realizes that the ferry has arrived at Republic City.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” she says, and Amon doesn’t believe her.
Still, she follows him without fuss through the crowds to the bustling little restaurant one of his followers had told him about. He can feel every eye in the room instantly swivel to look at the two of them as they enter.
Korra seems a little offput by the attention as well, but the restaurant is tiny, and unlike Kuang’s Cuisine, there are no private booths where they can talk and eat uninterrupted.
Amon does manage to find them a small table tucked away in one of the corners, however, and it makes him feel a little better. He sits with his back to most of the patrons; it’s not something he would usually allow himself to do, but he needs to adjust his mask a little bit to eat, and he’d rather not have the entire restaurant goggling at him.
He's switched to a new makeup, one developed to be water and smudge resistant and has so far found it satisfactory, but this is his first time using it in public, and it would be a shame for any would-be reporter to snap a shot of his face in the event of a mishap.
Still, he hates not being able to watch the entrance. Too many years of being careful has all of his instincts crying out, but he has a few Equalists he trusts planted in the restaurant to keep a lookout so that he doesn’t have to.
Korra doesn’t notice his discomfort, and she gets the seaweed noodles with pickled sea prunes. Amon orders the tentacle soup, a little affronted when Korra reaches across the table and takes one of his tentacles with her chopsticks without asking. He retaliates by stealing one of her sea prunes and he can feel his face burn hot when the only way he can think to describe the look she gives him as coquettish.
He wants to be suspicious; she has always been so guarded against him, and to see her like this should raise at least a dozen red flags. But she has always been so transparent. It’s one of the things he likes most about her. He can’t put his finger on exactly what has changed, but he’s not about to look a gift ostrich-horse in the mouth.
“So,” Korra says, and Amon isn’t sure what to do because she’s talking with her mouth full and instead of being put off, his chest is warm. Spirits, what this woman has done to him. Korra, oblivious to how he’s feeling, swallows, and continues speaking. “Half Water Tribe, huh?”
Amon inclines his head. “Yes. Half, what did you call it earlier? Bass-ackwards Northern Water Tribe, or something along those lines?”
Korra doesn’t even look contrite. “I hear they’re better than they used to be,” she says, as though conceding a point.
Amon almost wishes that he didn’t have to wear the mask with her. He’s got one eyebrow up and he wishes she could see the look on his face.
“Did you ever celebrate any of the Water Tribe holidays?”
The way Korra asks her question sounds like she’s getting at a point, so Amon thinks carefully of how he’d like to answer.
“My mother had her own quiet celebrations.” It’s true enough; his father was far enough removed from a traditional Water Tribe upbringing that most of the festivals had meant nothing to him. He’d allowed his wife to observe them, and involve their sons, at least when they were younger.
“Hmm,” Korra says. “Well, the Glacier Spirits Festival is coming up.”
“Yes, I am aware. The Southern Water Tribe has a rather large celebration every year, don’t they?”
Korra smiles at the question, and it’s like her whole face lights up. Amon almost forgets how to breathe. “It was always my favorite time of year growing up,” she says. “I’d get to leave the compound and eat all the junk food the White Lotus would normally never let me. And I’d get to see my parents, and go on the ferris wheel--”
Korra’s reminiscences paint a vivid picture of the festival. It’s the most animated he’s ever seen her, and the most consecutive words she’s ever said to him. He’s completely enraptured.
"You have fond memories of it," he says rather redundantly as she trails off, but he wants her to keep speaking, just so he can see her happy like he hasn't had the opportunity to before.
Korra seems to realize how long she's been speaking about the festival, and the looks on her face changes, her cheeks turning pink as she bites her lip.
"Yeah," Korra says. "About that. I was hoping to go this year, too."
“I see,” Amon says. He takes a bite of tentacle to give himself time to formulate an answer.
Winning her trust has been like building a house of cards, each one delicately placed. His reaction could either add another, or cause the whole thing to crumble. As loathe as he is to let her leave, he knows forbidding it will ruin his progress. He’s waited this long, he can wait longer.
“I don’t foresee it being a problem,” he says. He notes the look of relief on her face, and knows he’s made the right call. “You have vacation days, of course.”
“Of course,” Korra says, with a forced laugh.
He knows what she thinks of him, knows that she expected him to treat her like a prisoner. He wants this to be enough, for her to realize that he’s given her what the White Lotus wouldn’t, what her status as the Avatar wouldn’t: the freedom of deciding for herself. He wants her to try it, of course. But mostly, he just wants her to make the decision to come back to him when she’s done.
“Any thoughts on when you’ll be leaving?”
Korra pushes her noodles around on her plate. “Asami is going down with some guy named Varrick in a few days, I was hoping to ride along with them.”
A few days is not really what Amon would consider as sufficient notice, but he doesn’t say as much. “I hope you have a lovely time,” he says instead, and he means it.