Work Text:
Zuko trailed into the room after his father, his hand tapping a fast rhythm on the outside of his thigh as he looked around.
His eyes were drawn immediately to the chalkboard hung up on the wall to his left, the number one written in large font in the middle.
The therapist sat on one side of a table, opposite a child sized chair. Father reached behind his back and grabbed hold of Zuko’s shoulder without turning to locate him. He shoved Zuko into the chair and loomed menacingly over him, smiling slightly at the therapist.
Zuko stayed silent.
He had been warned to stay silent unless he was spoken to directly.
And no one was talking to him.
“Thanks for organizing this,” Father nodded a bow.
“It’s no problem, Ozai,” Zhao smirked, “I’m always happy to work with new patients. Especially when the parents are so accommodating of traditional methodologies. I’ll have him fixed in no time.”
“Excellent. I’ll watch the first session, if you don’t mind. To make sure I agree with your... course of treatment.”
“Of course,” Zhao returned the smirk over Zuko’s head. Father sat down on the couch against the wall, and he had a clear view of the table and Zuko’s face.
Zuko’s heart sank in wary fear, and his breathing picked up even as his hands started tapping faster.
“Hands on the table, Zuko,” Zhao snapped.
His voice was cold, authoritative. Like Father’s, but somehow blanker. Like he wasn’t even angry, or disappointed. Like he didn’t care at all.
Zuko obeyed instantly.
He knew how to follow an order.
Zhao smiled. He reached into his bag by the table, and pulled out a bag of chocolate chips and a ruler.
Carefully, he laid five chocolate chips in a perfectly straight line in front of Zuko.
The ruler, he held in his hand.
“Now, we’re going to be working on some of your weaknesses,” Zhao smiled, and Zuko shuddered a little at the cool enjoyment in his voice, “your father is especially interested in training you in proper eye contact, polite conversation, and stopping that ridiculous tapping. Do you understand?”
Zuko couldn’t do anything but nod, glancing over to his father in the corner, wishing his mom was there instead.
She wouldn’t have let this stranger do anything to him.
But his mother was gone. She’d disappeared less than a month before, in the middle of the night, and left him alone.
Zuko blinked the tears out of his eyes and nodded more firmly. Father wanted him to work on this. And he never wanted to displease Father.
“Good. Today we’ll focus on eye contact. Every time you hold eye contact with me for five continuous seconds, you get a reward,” Zhao tapped his fingers next to the chocolate chips, “and each time you look away too early, you get a punishment.”
Zuko bit his lip. Five seconds was... so, so long. He flicked his glance to his father again, taking in the hard edges of his smile, before looking back to Zhao’s forehead.
“Look properly, Zuko,” Zhao snapped. Zuko flinched at his tone and forced himself to look into Zhao’s eyes.
He squirmed, rubbing his feet together under the table. Burning pressure built up at the front of his head. His teeth clamped down hard on his lip.
He looked away, fixing his eyes on the table, breathing heavily.
“Fail,” Zhao said casually. In one fluid movement, he reached across the table and grabbed Zuko’s tiny hand in his massive one, holding it down firmly on the table by the fingers. He raised the ruler above his head and brought it down hard on Zuko’s palm.
Fiery pain shot through Zuko’s hand, and he yanked it to his chest, staring in horror at Zhao and his ruler. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he looked to his father, begging silently for him to intervene.
Ozai smiled. A cold, harsh thing.
“You will learn, Zuko,” Ozai said quietly, “and suffering will be your teacher.”
Father had never come into the room after the first session, satisfied that Zhao was the kind of doctor who wouldn’t wimp out of proper treatment.
Each time Zuko went into the stuffy, tiny little therapy room, the number on the chalk board went up.
Having sessions at lunch time three days a week meant that the number went up far too fast for Zuko’s liking.
By the time they reached three hundred and thirty three, a few weeks after his thirteenth birthday, just over two years after the first session, Zuko was exhausted. Angry. Desperate. Hopeless. Ready to explode.
Zhao had him focused on small talk that day. He’d already come into the room, shaken hands, made firm three second eye contact while giving his name, asked for Zhao’s, inquired about his wife, and given a small chuckle at the anecdote twelve times.
His palm stung viciously, and his head ached, but he knew the script by heart now.
Attempt twelve, Zhao broke pattern.
“We’ve been working on friendly first greetings,” Zhao smirked, “but now I’m going to be a business rival. Someone your father has instructed you to be wary of. Go back to the door.”
Zuko obeyed, chewing on the inside of his lip. He shoved down the fear that was constricting his lungs. He didn’t know the script. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, or how he was supposed to act. And that meant more painful whacks with the ruler.
Reward had gone completely out of the window in these sessions. Reward was not getting his hand slammed down onto the desk and smacked.
It didn’t bother him in the sense that he’d ever wanted the rewards Zhao offered. But he knew he was failing, that he was worse than Father and Zhao had originally assessed.
He knew he wasn’t worth rewarding.
But Agni, what he’d do for someone to tell him he’d done okay. He’d eat a stupid chocolate chip like it was a three course meal if it meant he was closer to not having to come back to Zhao’s little room and be snarled at like a lab rat failing to find it’s way out of a maze.
He deserved it, he told himself. He deserved every hit in this room, every disappointed shake of the head. Every speech to Father about how slow his progress was, and every slap and punch that followed.
If he could just be better. Be normal. Then they could stop having to teach him.
“Approach,” Zhao ordered. Zuko drew himself up to his full height, which barely put him at Zhao’s shoulder, and stepped into the room. He plastered on a smile and tried to lace it with the same distain he saw Father using when he greeted people he didn’t like.
He approached Zhao, who had crossed his arms and stood at near military attention, a look of absolute condescension on his face.
“Good morning, Doctor,” Zuko said, putting out his hand firmly for Zhao to shake.
“Fail,” Zhao rolled his eyes. “Do not address people by their title if you expect them to respect you more than you must respect them. Hand.”
Zuko’s heart sank, and he held out his hand for the blow. It didn’t tremble. He’d had enough practice in this office hiding the signs of fear his father found so repulsive.
The ruler was sharp and heavy against his palm, and he closed his fist immediately, fighting the urge to yelp.
“Again.”
Zuko took up his place by the door and strolled forward, trying to look relaxed.
“Good morning, Zhao,” he tried, offering his hand to shake. Zhao seemed to accept this, and took his hand.
His handshakes were usually firm, but this was absolutely crushing. Zuko sucked in a breath and tried to pull his hand out of the grasp.
“Fail,” Zhao spat. “Never allow your opponent to see you in pain. He tries to crush your hand, you crush his back.”
Zuko held out his hand for another hit, bracing himself against the force. The ruler cracked down hard, and he pulled his hands back to his chest, buying them both in his armpits.
There was no way he could shake hands like that. He was weak, and stupid, and he was doomed to fail this task before it even began. He hadn’t eaten three meals in a day since his mother had left, and even if he’d been strong for his age, he was still barely thirteen. He didn’t have the strength to crush Zhao’s hand.
“Again.”
Zuko glanced at the clock. Still fifteen more minutes of the session. That was enough time for at least ten more fails, ten more stinging blows to his palm, ten more handshakes firm enough to crack the joints in his hand.
“I... I don’t feel well, Doctor Zhao.” Zuko whispered, pressing his hands closer to his chest. “Please may I be excused?”
“You want me to get your father in here and tell him you’re refusing treatment?” Zhao gritted his teeth. Zuko quaked.
“N-no, sir, I just—”
“Again!” Zhao snapped, and Zuko hid the tremble of his bottom lip, stepped forward, and tried again.
“Good morning, Zhao,” he said coolly, reaching out to shake Zhao’s hand. He put all of his strength into the handshake, stifling the urge to cry out as his fingers bent with the force. Zhao didn’t announce a fail, so he withdrew his hand.
“Good morning, Zuko,” Zhao smirked.
Zuko paused, waiting for him to add something, to give Zuko something to work with in the fake conversation.
“Um—” Zuko broke the silence awkwardly, “h-how are you?”
He saw the hand holding the ruler flex, and his stomach clenched. Zhao didn’t call fail.
“I’m well,” Zhao nodded, smirking, “and yourself?”
“V-very well, thank you.”
Without warning, Zhao closed the gap between them and backhanded Zuko hard across the face. With a yelp of surprise and pain, Zuko fell, sprawling, to the ground. He clutched at the side of his face, eyes misting with tears.
Zhao had never hit him before. Not real hits. Only the hundreds of thousands of smacks to the hand with the damned ruler.
“Fail!” Zhao announced, an edge of exasperation and thinly disguised pleasure in his voice. “If one of your father’s rivals strikes you, you don’t fall down like a weak little kid and snivel on the ground. You fight back, or you step calmly away and seek out your father. Stand up, idiot boy.”
Zuko scrambled to his feet, still cradling his face in his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he tried, confusion swamping his mind. He had no idea what was happening. But apologizing sometimes worked with Father, and it was worth a try.
“Never apologize to the enemy,” Zhao sneered. “Hand.”
Zuko shook from head to toe.
This isn’t fair.
Zuko shoved the voice away. There was no point in thinking about fairness, of all things. You deserve this, he reminded himself firmly. He was broken, and weird, and he needed to be taught. He was a slow learner, and pain was the only way to teach him.
It wasn’t like the slap of a ruler against his palm was anywhere near as bad as it could be. No. He knew how much worse punishment for his mistakes could be. This was nothing. Nothing at all.
Zhao took his hand when he offered it, and yanked him towards the table by the wrist. He pushed Zuko’s hand down onto the cool surface, and held him firmly.
The ruler came down hard across bruised flesh. Zuko winced, and made to pull his hand back. The ruler came down again. And again. And again. Faster and faster, harder than normal.
Zuko tried to pull away, tried to twist out of Zhao’s grasp, but his grip was too tight. He was too strong, and too big, for Zuko to fight.
The ruler smashed down again, and Zuko cried out.
“Weakling!” Zhao spat, uncharacteristic anger rising in his tone as the ruler came down again, even harder than before.
“Doctor Zhao, please, please, I’m sorry, I’ll do better!” Zuko tried, wrenching his hand against the much larger one holding him down.
He didn’t clench his fist, or try to bend his fingers away. Fingers hurt so much more than palms.
“Shut up!” Zhao scolded, raising the ruler high above his head and bringing it down with a swish and a loud thud. Zuko howled.
“Three hundred,” Zuko yanked at his wrist, trying to get away, “and thirty,” his knees buckled at the next strike, cutting a line straight across his thumb pad, “three sessions! And you have learned nothing!”
Finally, finally, Zhao let go, shoving Zuko’s hand off the table. He cradled it gently against his chest, tears spilling down his cheeks. He felt a small trickle of blood roll down his wrist.
He didn’t understand. He didn’t know what he’d done that was so awful, or what was so different about that day. Zhao wasn’t like Father. Zhao hit him exactly how many times he’d earned, with the exact same viciousness, with the exact same cold look in his eyes. Zhao didn’t get angry, or fly off the handle. Zhao was predictable.
Or he had been.
Zuko blinked back pained tears and stared at his therapist as the man took deep, steadying breaths.
“You disappoint me, Zuko,” he broke the silence. “You have not learned.”
“Don’t come near me,” Zuko hissed, backing away. He registered his own words a second after they left his mouth, and his eyes widened in shock.
Rude. Obnoxious. Fail.
Zuko panicked. He panicked quietly, and internally, and without moving. Zhao stepped towards him, crowding him against the wall with his impossibly larger body.
Zuko bolted.
He flung open the door, and came face to face with his Father.
“I’m not going back,” Zuko heard himself say, horror rocking through his stomach, “I’m not coming here again.”
There was absolute silence. Zuko didn’t even breathe.
Ozai stared at him, his face completely blank as he took in his son’s bright red cheek, and the hand he was clutching to his chest. The streak of blood down his arm. The defiant eye contact, the lack of trembles or flinches, the stillness of his hands.
“Fine,” he said, ice dripping from his words, “it looks like you’ve at least learned something in there.”
Ozai nodded to Zhao, ignoring the other man’s outraged face.
Zuko walked away without looking back.
Three days later, he was lying in cool grass, his face on fire.