Chapter Text
Jin followed the boy after his shift at the tea shop.
Of course, if you asked her, she would argue. Following? No, not her. She was only out for a bowl of noodles. It just so happened that the handsome server that every girl kept their eyes on would be working at her preferred noodle shop.
But following? Never.
The boy was a refugee that had been just as responsible for the new customers at Pao’s Tea Shop as his uncle, who brewed simply the finest cup of tea anyone in the district had ever tasted. Although where the uncle drew connoisseurs and workers looking to unwind after a long day, his nephew brought girls who giggled when he brought their orders out.
While the boy from the tea shop worked as a server under his uncle, at his second job at Yang’s Noodle Shop he did not take orders or serve customers. You could miss him if you weren’t looking for him (Jin was always looking) since he worked in the back, visible through a large open slat in the building’s wall. With the right perspective (Jin found it on her second day there) you could see him as he chopped vegetables and manned one of the shop’s woks.
The boy was a completely different person depending on where he worked. At the tea shop he was a brooding mess. While his uncle joked with every customer and took every request with a smile, the boy, in contrast, seemed to be enraged from every word from a customer. Except in the case of direct flirtations from some of the district’s girls, which would cause his constant scowl to be suddenly replaced by a flushed face and his curt responses became rushed stammers.
At the noodle shop, though, the boy was something else entirely. He was a clear expert with knives. Jin had heard older men comment on the boy’s skill while they watched the way the blades danced forward at his station, disassembling an army of cabbage, sprouts, and peppers with practiced ease. Those with an appreciation for such things would watch him prep before they returned to their own bowls of noodles, but Jin so much preferred him at the wok.
True, there was no flashy demonstration of skill to be had here, unlike the knives. The best cook could not make his next batch of noodles any faster than the worst, but when the boy stood at the flames something beautiful happened.
Wet with fresh oil, the wok was seasoned with spices before the boy dropped in fistfuls of vegetables and moved them with practiced movements. On and on this would go, the wok filled with noodles and Yang’s own personal chili oil mixture. Dozens of batches were prepared within the hissing wok, and the boy would never stop. Unlike the tea shop, the boy did not scowl here, instead, he frowned in concentration and kept his eyes upon the flames, his face illuminated by the cookfire.
Jin could never stop watching him. His hands kept the noodles moving with steady movements and he never seemed to ruin a batch, but curiously he never appeared to actually watch the food. Those stern eyes of his only ever watched the fire, the way it burned brilliantly under the wok or wrapped over the edges to dip inside the walls for the briefest moments.
The boy loved the flames.
And the flames loved him in return.
With his sleeves rolled up, no burn marks could be seen despite how close he stood. Unlike the other cooks, who fought the fire and kept a distance from it for safety, he worked in tandem with it. Pressing his body against the fire, he would only step back when it threatened to grow dangerous. As if he could sense it. Speak to it.
Of course, Jin wouldn’t say that the heat of the fire did not affect him. No, Jin could tell by his forearms that he was not impervious to heat. Bare of clothing and brilliantly lit by the cookfire, the corded muscle of his forearms dripped with thick beads of sweat. So focused was he on the flames that the boy never seemed bothered by the flames that reached out to kiss his bare skin.
Jin felt her own face grow hot as she watched him and she quickly looked away to slurp at her noodles. When she had calmed down and her face returned to a more normal color she looked back at the boy and let out a small squeak.
For once, he had broken his concentration on the fire to look at the crowd. And he was staring at her. Jin tried to tell herself that he was simply bored and scanning the customers, but she knew she was lying. There was no mistaking the fact that those golden eyes were fixed directly on her. From here she could see how they captured the light from the fire and turned a brilliant shade. Like a pouring of molten gold.
Gone was the peaceful frown that settled on the boy’s face while he manned the wok. In its place sat the scowl that every tea shop customer knew so well.
Feeling herself drawn dangerously into those eyes, Jin broke eye contact and focused entirely on her bowl of noodles. After several minutes she ventured a risky glance back at the kitchen. The boy had returned to the wok in front of him, moving them with the same practiced gestures he had been using for hours.
His scowl, however, remained.
“How was your work, nephew?” Iroh asked, balancing precariously on a ladder while he struggled to save a small box of Pao’s tea that had been doomed to life on an upper shelf. As he spoke the ladder wobbled and Zuko grabbed its base to steady it.
“How do you think? Boring. The same as every day.” He had scrubbed his body with a damp cloth for an hour when he had got home, but he couldn’t get the stench of noodles and Yang’s chili oil off his body.
“That is a negative attitude, nephew. You should take the time to appreciate the beauties in having such a job.”
Zuko would have crossed his arms in frustration if it would not have left the ladder in a compromised position. “Like what?”
Tea secured, Iroh scrambled down with a nimbleness that defied his sizable bulk. “Like noodles! We have not had to pay for dinner in a week since you bring home so much.”
“I’m tired of noodles,” Zuko said. And of tea. And the tiny apart they shared. Of the other refugees and the stagnant water and the boredom that clutched at his throat and the long shifts at the noodle shop and the stench he couldn’t scrub off and this entire city and fucking everything.
“You are off tomorrow night,” Iroh said, taking a whiff from the teabox and grimacing. “You and I could make some dumplings; it would be a nice night.”
“I don’t want dumplings, uncle.” Zuko hissed, putting as much stress as he could on every word. “I want to be out of here,” his voice dropped low to avoid raising suspicion, but he still glanced over his shoulder all the same. A habit from months on the road. But the customers only sipped at their tea, chatted amenably, and laughed, every one of them in the emerald green that was infuriatingly common in the city.
The wave of green flooded his eyes. His blood pumped and that flame inside of him flickered in frustration. A prince of the Fire Nation forced into an eighteen silver a month hovel. Scraping together coins by serving tea at a dilapidated tea shop and manning a cookfire like a peasant. He should have been surrounded by soldiers that he led in his father’s name to win glory on the field. Instead, he was crammed into a district with a thousand other nameless refugees.
He continued to scan the crowd, the fire thrashing inside of him.
And his eyes fell on her.
It was a good place to hide. She was tucked away so it was difficult to get a visual of her, but her table was angled so that she could have a view of the whole shop. Whoever she was, Dai Li or Fire Nation, she knew her tradecraft.
“Uncle,” Zuko whispered, “we have a problem.”
“What is it?” Iroh's voice was packed with worry, “Are we out of the Jasmine already? I just ordered a fresh batch.”
“This isn’t about your stupid tea,” damn his uncle, the Dragon of the West reduced to concern over tea shipments. “One of our customers is on to us. She’s over at the corner table,” he nodded his head towards the girl. If she was intending on making a move then they would not have long. “She knows we’re Fire Nation.”
“Are you sure?” Iroh asked, his voice noticeably less concerned now that the fear of reduced Jasmine stock had vanished, but when he looked at where Zuko had gestured he only smiled. “Oh Zuko,” he chuckled, “I don’t think she knows we’re Fire Nation.”
“She has to. She’s been here several times this week, and she’s been following me when I take my shift at the noodle shop.”
Iroh laughed at this. Far too loudly for someone trying to be discreet. A handful of customers turned to look at them.
“Will you shut up!” Zuko hissed through his teeth.
“I have seen her here as well,” Iroh said, keeping the smile on his face while he placed a pair of kettles over a fire for upcoming orders. “I believe she has quite a little crush on you.”
So focused on the thought of an assassin trailing them, Zuko’s first response was pure relief. His shoulders sagged. Not an assassin then, just a girl with a crush.
Wait what.
“What?”
“Oh yes,” Iroh turned away from the kettles to pat his nephew on the shoulder, “she is in here often.”
“That doesn’t mean,” the words came out louder than he meant so he lowered his voice, “that she likes me.”
“Oh, but she keeps her eyes on you. And!” his voice was loud enough to make Zuko wince in frustration, “she giggles whenever you bring out her order.”
Something warm touched Zuko’s cheeks. His uncle was being foolish, which was not exactly an uncommon occurrence. Still, he glanced back at the table where the girl sat.
It was empty. Where had-
“Hi,” a voice said.
Zuko jumped. The girl was at the counter, holding a small coin purse to pay for her tea. Had she heard any of their conversation?
“Nephew,” Iroh said, his voice suddenly strained, “please take care of her. I am so busy with these orders that I cannot spare even a moment.”
The fire inside flared and Zuko ground his teeth loud enough he was sure the girl could hear. All the same, he stepped to the counter, because he was a peasant in a tea shop and that is what you did.
“I just had a Jasmine,” she said, smiling at him. Now that he was thinking about it, she was certainly pretty. If you were into Earth Kingdom peasants. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a pair of braids that were bound with tarnish brass rings, but her eyes were something else. Soft olive green eyes full of curiosity and wonder and everything that he had pushed so far down. They watched him, expecting something.
Shit.
“That’s two copper!” Zuko screamed. A few patrons glanced their way at his sudden volume. His face burned.
She giggled and slid forward a half silver and he dug in their counter for the copper to make change. She watched him as he did, lingering on his face. On his scar.
“What’s your name?” She asked.
“Lee,” the word tasted foul on his tongue. Throughout his exile he had clung to the name Zuko like a piece of driftwood, desperately sure that it would be the thing to carry him home again.
“Lee,” she said the name slowly and gave him another smile to show she liked it. Why did that matter to him?
The fire shrugged.
“I’m Jin. Have you been in Ba Sing Se long?”
“No. My uncle and I fled from the south,” the lie came smoothly. Of course it did. They had given it to two dozen customs officials, a hundred soldiers, and the countless refugees that Iroh had insisted on making conversation with.
“We just moved here,” he continued.” Moved. As if they had selected a home to settle down in and had not been crammed onto a ferry with hundreds of others.
Jin frowned and those olive-green eyes shimmered. He expected her to say how sorry she was or to start on her own depressing story. That was how it went. Everyone heard your sob story and then gave you theirs in return. Those brass rings in her hair did not speak of wealth, so it was likely she was another refugee. Just like everyone else in this district.
“I was wondering,” she said, shuffling her feet and looking away. Then she turned her eyes back on him and he felt the world shift, if only a bit. “Would you like to go out sometime?”
Briefly, Zuko’s brain detached. He became aware of some thoroughly unusual sound coming from his mouth, certainly one that did not befit a prince of the Fire Nation. Then from the corner of his eye he saw a large figure move, and suddenly his uncle was beside him.
“He would love to!” Iroh said while that odd sound continued to come from Zuko. “Lee is free tomorrow night.”
“That’s great!” She looked back at him and the sound stopped. “I’ll meet you in front of the shop at sundown?”
When he didn’t respond, an elbow jabbed him in the back and he managed to hiss a raspy, “Yes.”
“I”ll see you then!” Then she was gone. And his face was burning.
“Uncle!” He spun around, his fingertips itching in a desperate need to hurl flame. Something had to burn for this. “What is wrong with you? I can’t go on a date.”
“Why not? Was I wrong? Do you have work tomorrow?”
“No, that’s not it. It’s because I...well..I can’t,” he stumbled over the words. How could he explain it to the man who seemed to not care whether he spoke with a High Admiral of the Fire Nation Navy or some Earth Kingdom farmer? There was no way Zuko would be going on a date with some Earth Kingdom peasant.
“Do not worry,” Iroh assured him, smoothing the front of Zuko’s apron. “One of our neighbors does a bit of tailoring. We will get you a nice tunic and I shall even fix your hair.” He patted Zuko on the shoulder and returned to the kettles.
Zuko ground his teeth. The fire inside was thrashing, begging him to argue and fight. All he wanted was to scream, to breath in the smoke and ash as the tea shop and this entire fucking district burned around him. But he couldn’t. The slightest bit of flame could bring the Dai Li down on them.
He couldn’t do that to his uncle. The man who had given up so much to protect him. So instead he ran through the breathing exercises Iroh had taught him so long ago. When he was a scared boy given command of a ship, body racked with panic, and feelings of anxiety wrapped tightly around his throat. The breathing coaxed the fire to be still.
He stopped, suddenly bothered.
“What’s wrong with my hair?”