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As part of his penance, the Northern Water Tribe puts Zhao to work on the docks, mooring vessels as they come to port, helping them to cast off, carrying cargo to and fro. He is always made to carry the heaviest of the crates, the smelliest of their catches – the reindeer-dogs follow him for hours after he has transported skunkshark – but beyond the indignity of the physical labour, he actually seems quite at ease with this sort of work. Somehow, even with his title of admiral, it is easy to forget that Zhao is a seafaring man, not just comfortable out on the water, but at home on it.
As far as punishments go, therefore, it certainly could be worse. Perhaps part of it is that he gets to use his body. Yue has even glimpsed him showing off a few times, hoisting something unnecessarily with one arm rather than two, his eyes always finding her own somehow, a self-satisfied grin splitting across his chapped lips.
One day, just as the princess has come to collect Zhao and return him to his cell for the evening, a group of children appear out of the corner of her eye. There are six of them, four boys and two girls ranging in age from twelve to seven. Zhao does not see them, his head bent as he kneels to secure one last gondola to the side of the canal. He makes a small flourish and smirks, and Yue knows he has just executed another Fire Nation knot to stymy the man who will come to pilot the gondola in the morning. He must be in a particularly good mood for such childish mischief.
He stands, catches sight of the princess and acknowledges her with a wave, stepping towards her. She is about to move in his direction when one of the children cries out:
“Hey, it’s the firebender!”
“Attack!” chorus the others, and a wall of frigid water roars across the distance between them and Zhao, blasting the man clean over and into the canal below.
For a moment all Yue can do is stare, wide-eyed, and when she finds her voice she is torn between hollering at the screeching children as they cackle and scatter, and letting out a tittering laugh of her own. The children disappear, heedless of her status and superior age, leaving her alone with Zhao, who splutters and swears through chattering teeth.
Struggling to keep a straight face, Yue casts about for something to throw him, but the only rope immediately available is the one he has knotted, and she knows she will not be able to undo it. Thankfully Zhao is a smarter man than he looks and is able to swim his way over to the gondola and haul himself up. He flips onto his back with the effort, the narrow vessel rocking dangerously and taking on a fair bit of water, and Yue notes with some concern that the firebender doesn’t exude as much steam as he ought to.
“Are you alright, admiral?” she calls down to him, watching him shiver.
“J-ju-just n-n-need a m-mm-min-minute…” he forces out, giving up on addressing her by title after the fifth “p-p-puh” sound stutters from his lips.
She titters, not at all liking the way he seems to be turning blue, and shrugs out of the thick fur-lined cloak draped over her shoulders. Carefully she makes her way down to the gondola, the cloak thrown over one arm, the other extended and reaching for Zhao’s prone form.
“C’mon, we need to get you inside,” the princess cajoles him, wriggling her fingers impatiently. There is a moment of hesitation, and then Zhao heaves himself up shakily, clasping her proffered hand.
It’s an oddly intimate feeling, his large paw encasing her own small hand, and Yue contemplates just how strong the man actually is. He could hurt her grievously if he really wanted to, could snap her slender fingers back with little effort or crush her wrist into dust, yet she’s never gotten the impression that he would indulge in such violence. If anything, the admiral has been unnaturally accepting of his role as their – as her – captive in the north.
It doesn’t do much good, but she tries to towel him off with her cloak, mostly succeeding in rubbing his hair and sideburns dry. The rest of him is soaked through.
As they make their way back to the many-tiered palace, Yue silently dismisses the notion of returning Zhao to his cell. The whole point of keeping him there is that it is colder, forces him to reserve his firebending for internal comfort rather than potential acts of external aggression. Well, he’s more than cold enough now, she thinks. Beside her, Zhao lets out a very loud and equally miserable sneeze.
Too late Yue realizes she has gone the wrong way, should have steered Zhao towards Yagoda’s healing hut rather than the palace, for habit has guided her feet straight to her own chambers. She balks for a moment in front of the door considering all the impropriety of what lay on the other side, but then she hears footsteps from just around the corner of the hall, and in a panic she grabs the admiral by his sopping wet parka and ushers him, shivering, into the room.
Zhao, of course, has no idea where he is and makes straight for the large bed in the centre without any thought as to the appropriateness of his actions.
With trembling hands he pulls aside the top layer of stitched together pelts, sneezing several times even in the short course of that action. Yue watches as he makes to climb onto the bed, then halts, staring dumbly down at himself as though only just now realizing he is wet. He sniffs loudly, and then abruptly pulls his drenched parka over his head. As his hands descend to his waist and begin the process of shoving his buffalo-yak hide trousers down, Yue comes to the rapid conclusion that it is imperative she locate several more blankets for him. She hurries out of her room, ducking her head and hiding the furious blush on her cheeks behind the white curtain of her hair.
She returns laden with several additional pelts, another slab of blubber for her qulliq, and a bowl of soup.
The blankets she piles upon Zhao, who hunkers even deeper in his nest of plush warmth, and then she carefully adds the strip of tigerseal blubber to the already burning oil of her qulliq, adjusting the wick to negate any unpleasant smoke. She returns to the bed – carefully stepping over the admiral’s discarded clothes – and gently nudges his shoulder.
“Hey,” she says quietly, “you’ll heat up faster if you’re warm on the inside, too.”
Zhao stares at her blearily from beneath the mound of furs and blankets, barely comprehending her words. Yue shifts the warm bowl of soup in her grip, reaching out with her other hand to hold open one of his eyelids. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for her suspicion to be confirmed. His pupil dilates, but belatedly, and the part of his forehead she rests her palm against is already warm, and clammy with sweat. The man’s neck deep in a fever. Yue sighs in exasperation and puts the bowl of soup down. Only thing to do now is ride it out.
It takes hours for his fever to break, and Zhao fades in and out of consciousness, shaking the entire time. Yue watches over him, tending to the qulliq’s wick as she goes, trying to spoon soup into his mouth or sips of water from a cup whenever he seems lucid enough to swallow safely. Bit by bit she manages to drain the bowl into his stomach, hoping the warm, rich broth will help balance his body’s temperature.
She knows the fever has broken when she yawns loudly, swaying where she stands, and Zhao rolls over to peer at her admonishingly.
“How late is it?” he croaks at her.
“Late,” she replies, “maybe early, at this point. You were very sick.”
Zhao struggles up onto his elbows, clearly weak. The furs and blankets atop him slip down, exposing his naked shoulders and chest, which Yue tries very hard not to look at.
“You should be in bed, princess,” Zhao tells her, and it’s hard to discern whether his voice is laced predominantly with chastisement or genuine concern. Not entirely sure how to explain that he is the one currently occupying her bed, Yue dismisses him.
“I’ll be fine Zh – aaaoooow – ”
The yawn stretching out her answer rather proves her wrong.
“Well, if you’re going to be so stubborn about it,” Zhao grumbles, trying – and failing – to swing himself upright. With a grunt he falls back down onto the bed. Defeated, he looks at her beseechingly.
“I don’t think the rest of the Tribe would like it if you ran yourself into the ground on my behalf, princess. If you don’t lay down, I’m going to roll myself on the floor, and then all your fussing will have been wasted because I’ll probably catch cold again. And it’ll be all your fault.”
For a member of the Fire Nation, he has a bizarrely solid grasp on the will of the Tribe, and Yue does not doubt him still capable of slipping from the bed to the floor in a display of his usual intractability. She hesitates a moment, then rolls her eyes at the stupidity of it all and rounds the bed, crawling beneath the many layers awkwardly. She’ll be sweltering in moments, still wearing her full parka as she is, but every layer between her and the admiral is one she’ll hold on to.
Not that she needs to. There’s plenty of space in her large bed for both of them, especially since they both seem determined to keep to opposites ends of it. She lay there, tense and uncomfortable but grateful to no longer be standing, slowly relaxing to the sound of Zhao’s rumbling, steady breaths. Yue feels her eyelids droop, wonders how she’ll manage to sneak him out undetected in the morning, and then is lost to sleep.
When she wakes, her first conviction of keeping as many layers between her and the admiral has clearly been compromised. She’s shed her parka at some point, the heavy garment hanging halfway to the floor, leaving her in her sarashi and a long shift of imported Earth Kingdom linen.
Her other conviction – of keeping to her side of the bed – has also been rendered void. Her face is scant inches from Zhao’s, his warm, rhythmic breaths brushing against her cheek.
She sucks in a sharp breath of her own, which causes the admiral to twitch and wake groggily. Honey eyes stare at her, unfocused, and then he smiles and nestles back into his small mountain of blankets and pelts.
“…m’dreaming…” he mumbles contentedly.
Yue quirks her brow, uncertain as to the seriousness of his claim.
“What makes you say that, admiral?”
“...hhmrrm... princess is in bed with me… would never happen… means I’m dreaming…”
As though to solidify his point – that he is asleep and the impossible is now within the realm of plausibility – he reaches out, captures her in his arms and shifts her. Yue is turned away from him, and then pulled so that her back is flush with his chest. Zhao curls protectively, drawing his knees up so she is almost sitting in his lap even as she lays on her side. He is very warm, but pleasantly so, and as she can feel through her shift, also very naked.
Yue lets out a little squeak, her blood pounding in her ears.
“Ssee..?” he slurs against her hair, “nn.. not scared of me…”
And then he tilts his head, brushing his lips against the sensitive skin of her neck. The sensation causes a chill to ripple through Yue, her arms breaking out in gooseflesh despite the incredible heat of her bed. She squirms, not entirely sure if she is trying to escape the next kiss that finds her or press herself closer to it, but Zhao’s arms simply hold her tight. After a moment she can tell from the rise and fall of his chest against her back that he has relaxed back into sleep.
It’s nice to be held, she thinks, and decides that she too could use a little extra rest.