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If there’s one thing Katara doesn’t enjoy about being Fire Lady, it’s the horribly long, horribly sweaty days of politics. Fire Sages could and do talk for hours about everything, not-so-subtly suggesting that whatever Zuko is aiming for isn’t quite right. Is against the traditions of the Fire Nation, or against the wishes of the people. They have no trouble reminding Katara and Zuko of how new Zuko’s reign is, because in the grand scheme of things five years is nothing, and how there are a great many out there displeased with the fact that the Fire Lady is, in fact, a waterbender.
Needless to say, they’re irritating and exhausting. Katara is irritated and exhausted, even with the moonlight spilling in, rejuvenating her.
Zuko approaches the bed in his underclothes, rubbing at his neck, head thrown back and rolling. Normally, she would offer to help him work out the kinks—she can’t heat her hands the way he can, can’t make it that much more comfortable, but massages between them are intimate and caring either way—but she just cannot tonight. It’s a wonder, really, that she managed to undress and then put her nighttime shift on. Sighing loudly, she flops back sideways onto their bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. It doesn’t take long before Zuko is joining her, slipping their fingers together and resting their hands on his bare stomach.
“One day,” Katara says, “I’m going to throttle one of them, and I refuse to feel bad for it.”
Zuko snorts. “When you do, I want to see it happen. We don’t have nearly enough fun around here.”
Though she knows he’s joking, she twists to look at him, finding him already gazing at her. Pouting, she asks, “You don’t think we have fun?”
“Well,” he drawls, lazily gesturing to their room. “In here we do. But that doesn’t count.”
“It doesn’t count?” Pretending to be outraged, she flips on top of him, her thighs bracketing his hips. “Take that back,” she demands, sticking her fingers along his sides and tickling for all she’s worth.
Laughing and gasping for air, he tries to buck her off, but she doesn’t budge. Just before her fingers can move up to his underarms, he grips her around the waist and tumbles them around. They land on the floor, her on her back but still shouting at him to answer to his crimes.
She’s not surprised at all when he leans down and kisses her, instead. Her hands slowly come to a halt, holding onto his flanks as their mouths moved in tandem. When they finally pull away, she’s breathless, panting hard.
For a moment, they just stare at each other, laying tangled up on the floor like fools. Then they burst out laughing, tears of mirth spilling down her cheeks. He tucks his head down, and whispers to her, “See? We could never do that anywhere else.”
He’s right, of course. Some part of her likes that. That they have this area to themselves, where they can be themselves, where they can play. The rest of the palace is for being serious and prideful and kind and strong. But another part of her, one Sokka knows very well, has an idea of how she could liven up their days—there are many more ponds and fountains around now. Maybe he’ll enjoy a nice cool down from a bubble dropping on his head. “I’ll take care of it,” she whispers back, and, well. That’s that.