Work Text:
Azula scowled at the strands of hair that fell across her face, “I cut you off once and I could do it again, you know?” She told the bit of hair and blew it to the side with a puff of air. Satisfied, she turned her attention back to its original target. Her fingers tightened around their wooden grip, “Alright, time to meet your doom.” Stabbing forward, she swept the brush in her hand across the canvas. A brilliant line of blue smeared the white space. Applied too thick with bits of blue that dripped down in globs. Ones that threatened the rug below her workspace with a sudden, permanent redecoration.
Her scowl deepened, lines wrinkling her face. Drips ran further down to lick the bottom most edge of the canvas frame. Azula threw the brush down on her palette. She ignored the way the blue trailed through the other wells. Instead she lifted the canvas, easel and all, off the rug and gave it a swift kick to knock it aside.
She should have thought of that in the first place, really.
Wasn’t she supposed to be good at strategic plans?
Dropping the easel back down, she examined the palette with a curl of disgust in her top lip. Blue had infected the well of red with streaks of purple. It muddied her yellow into a sickly green. The whole thing was a mess.
Ruined.
Like everything else she touched.
Sighing, she tucked her hair aside again and stared at the single blue line. The stark blankness glared back at her between the dripping streak. Her efforts were swallowed by the sheer amount of empty space left. Azula was lost. It hadn’t occurred to her that painting wouldn’t be easy. Part of her wanted to be done with the thing. To burn the canvas. Wash her hands of the whole thing and pretend it never happened.
That, however, would require admitting defeat.
And she was simply worse at giving up than she was at painting.
A knock on the door interrupted her musings, “Agni’s balls,” she cursed under her breath, “Don’t come in,” she said louder.
“Aren’t you going to ask who it is before you totally bar entry?” Sokka’s muffled, but unmistakable voice carried through the door, “Seems like it would be worth knowing what you’d be missing out on.”
“Bold of you to assume it makes a difference,” she called back. But she couldn’t hear his footsteps recede down the hall. It seemed Sokka was undeterred by his lack of welcome. Either that or she’d have to suspect the Water Tribe teen wouldn’t know subtly unless it clubbed him in the head. It was to be expected from savages. Her shrewd gaze flicked around the room, settling on the side table beside her. Its draping just scraped the floor. Perfect for stashing the painting supplies from unwelcome attention. Tossing the covering up, she deftly slid the painting and palette to the floor and covered them again.
Her nose prickled at the bits of dust that dislodged themselves from the cloth. Azula made a note to herself to fire her maid, or at least threaten them with firing. She’d found either method equally effective. One of her hands strayed to her hair again, tucking imaginary unruly pieces back in place. She smoothed down her robes, fiddling with one of the closures on her wrist. Nodding to herself, she addressed Sokka again, “Fine. Enter, if you must.”
He threw the door open, self-satisfaction oozing from his closed lip grin. “Oh, I must.”
“What do you want?” she asked and crossed her arms.
“Is that anyway to greet a foreign dignitary?” Sokka slipped into a deep lofty tone, his fingers tweaking the edges of a pretend mustache over his lips.
Azula snorted, “My apologies. What can I do for you, Ambassador Sokka, son of Chief Hakoda of the Southern Water Tribe, his excellence at being a pain in my as-”
“You know, I think that’ll do.” He held up one of his hands to cut her off, the other one resting on the back of his head. Nails lightly scratching the shaved portion in the back of his hair, “Aang really wants some of those dumplings from that vendor in Ember Island, but he and Zuko have council meetings all day. So, I’m going to borrow Appa and go pick some up for him. You want to come?”
She pursed her lips. Sky bison wasn’t exactly Azula’s preferred method of travel. Not that she was afraid of it, of course. The beast simply lacked some of the refinements of travel she was accustomed to. While she was more than capable of roughing it, why do it if she didn’t have to?
Azula started to shake her head, “Oh, come on,” he wheedled, “it’ll be fun. I make everything fun.”
She didn’t respond. It would give him far too much satisfaction no matter what she said, “Alright, I get it. You’d rather keep doing whatever it was you were doing in here. Want me to get you anything?”
“Some fire gummies. The extra hot ones from the stall that sells those komodo sausages. I suppose you could bring Zuzu some sizzle-crisps too. But do not, under any circumstances, get them from the shop that sells smoked sea slug. Everything ends up tasting like them if you do.” Finished with her rambling order, Azula watched Sokka raise one of his eyebrows. He leaned against her door frame, balanced on one of his elbows. Clearly he was waiting for something, “Please,” she tacked on quietly.
Sokka nodded, offering her a deep bow, “It would be my pleasure, Princess.” He turned to leave. His fingers lingered on the door frame, “Actually, there is one more thing. Why are your fingers blue?”
Azula glanced down at her hands. Sure enough, the paint had betrayed her. It stained her skin with a light but still rather obvious tint. She brought her gaze back up to him, blinked, and shrugged. Tucking a piece of her bangs behind her ear, she addressed him again, “There’s a draft in here. My hands are cold,” she answered airly. She folded her hands behind her back to hide them from view.
Sokka’s gaze narrowed. A calculating glance swept over the room. The pad of his thumb pressed against his bottom lip in consideration.
“But you’re a fire bender.”
“What can I say? My cold heart is catching up with me.”
Sokka shook his head, frowning. He stepped into the room and let the door swing shut behind him, “Nice try. Your heart isn’t cold.”
Azula meant to argue his point. She did. And she would later. But their gazes were both drawn at the same time to the rug. Still tossed awkwardly to one side from where she’d kicked it before. The floorboards beneath were bare.
Exposed.
Azula shifted to block his view. But he was faster than she anticipated. Sokka stepped around her, heading toward the rug. The toe of his boot brushed against a fallen glob of paint. Smearing the color across the board. Bemused, Sokka followed the short trail of the stray drops to the table, “Ah ha.” He whipped back the draping cloth with a flourish, “You were painting? That’s what you’ve been up to.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She watched him stoop down. He took the painting out with a certain reverence that the single line didn’t deserve, “Careful. You’re going to get it everywhere,” Azula snapped, despite knowing it was far too late for that concern. The boards beneath the table were covered in oozing paint. One corner of the table covering had dragged across the palette, saturating the hem in a myriad of shades. Her face colored deeply. A flush crept along her cheekbones. It flared as she watched Sokka’s fingers drift along the trails of paint.
“Why were you trying to hide it?” he asked gently.
“I don’t know,” she pinched the bridge of her nose. A smudge of blue transferred from her fingers to the sloped tip of her nose, “because it’s humiliating.”
Sokka tried desperately not to laugh at her. He thought of his sword falling in the ocean. Boomerang shattering to pieces. Momo stealing all his seal jerky. Eight syllables on the last line of a haiku. But the evidence of the paint Azula had tried her best to hide crept even further across her face. He coughed, trying to strangle an escaped chuckle, “You might as well just laugh at this point,” she said.
Sokka swallowed his laughter, “Why would it be humiliating?” he asked, “It looks like you were having fun.”
“It wasn’t.” Azula went to tuck her hair behind her ears again, glared at her painted fingers, and opted to blow the strands out of the way rather than spreading the blue anywhere else, “It was a ridiculous idea and I’m burning it the moment I get a chance.” She reached for the painting.
Sokka stepped back. He lifted the canvas out of her reach with one arm and held her at a distance with the other. Ignoring the paint dripping down on one of his shoulders, “Don’t you dare,” he exclaimed, “If you don’t want the lighting, I’m keeping it.”
Azula paused. Her features softening beneath the traces of paint. Eyes wide and round, “You knew what it was?” The princess’s voice was quiet.
“Yeah?” Sokka looked at Azula with a shrewd gaze and brought the painting down to her level again. Balanced on his palm, he traced the canvas again to follow the light on the strike, “It’s a straight shot down and has the trails just like lightning does.” He decided not to mention her previous interactions with lightning. It was the kind of topic that didn’t tend to go well. Just focusing on the art itself, “Even if it didn’t, is it really so embarrassing to do something just because you enjoy it?” Azula didn’t answer him, “Just because you’re the golden child, it doesn’t mean you have to be good at everything. Trust me.”
“So, you’re telling me I’m just simply not supposed to care if it all goes wrong?” She bent down to retrieve her brush, twisting the handle in her fingers. Tiny bits of paint dusted her fingers, picked up between the wood grains of the handle.
“Nope. Not what I’m saying at all. You can care, and be annoyed or upset if it doesn’t turn out quite the way you expected. But remember it’s okay to just enjoy the process for what it becomes too.”
“Is this supposed to be some kind of grand metaphor for my redemption? Because if it is, I…” Azula trailed off. Her fingers had tightened around the brush handle. Muscles wound through her arm to strike on reflex. She dropped the brush like it burned her and listened to the clatter when it hit the floor. Her gaze traveled guiltily back to Sokka, “My apologies, Ambassador. Threats are unbecoming.”
Sokka clicked his tongue against his teeth and shrugged, “Should I go?” he asked. Azula shook her head, “Good, because I’d hate to overstay my welcome as a foreign dignitary.” Slipping back into his mock official tone at the end of his sentence, he cracked a grin, “It wasn’t about you, you know. Just the painting. Have you ever seen one of my drawings?” he asked.
Azula had a fuzzy memory from her extended stay in the palace medical wing. Someone had sent her a letter with lumpy looking flowers on it and something resembling a volcano. Scrawling handwriting accompanied the drawings. However, her head had felt like it was stuffed with koala sheep wool at the time. The letters wobbled on the parchment. No one was around to read it to her, and it had been moved out of reach by the time she woke up again. Relegated to a spot on the wall and promptly forgotten.
She supposed that could have been Sokka’s letter.
His drawings.
Part of her hoped they were. That would mean, after all, that there was someone even worse at art than her. Azula lip curled in a half-smile. “I might have.” A noncommittal answer, “You might have to draw me something to jog my memory.” Sokka rolled up his sleeves, taking a spare piece of parchment from the art supplies and retrieving the abandoned brush for her. She frowned, “I thought you were drawing. Not me.”
“Oh, I’ll draw, but you have to finish yours too. Consider it an international trade agreement.” He stuck out his hand to shake, knowing the Fire Princess wouldn’t clasp his arm back if he tried.
Azula delicately shook his hand after some deliberation. She took the brush. As she rearranged her workspace and propped up her canvas, Sokka was already busy at work. He hummed something under his breath. The kind just loud enough to be heard, but too soft not to grate on her nerves. Especially the airy whistles that squeaked through his teeth.
She did her best to ignore them.
To drown them in her painting.
Sighing, Azula mixed the unwelcome streaks of blue into the wells of spoiled paint on her palette. She watched the colors turn, altered into something new. Something unexpected, unplanned for, but not entirely unpleasant. A tiny hum of air escaped from her nose. Perhaps whether he’d intended to or not, the Water Tribe oaf had constructed an apt metaphor.
She dipped her brush into a new shade of lavender, framing the bolt of lighting in hints of a sunrise. A storm breaking. The lines where she wobbled were hidden in clouds and shadows. Ones more steady, more sure, could shine in the patches of light.
Azula set her brush down after some time. The canvas filled. Satisfied with what she’d done. She cleared her throat, “I’m finished.” She snatched his drawing off the table, eyes dancing in humor at the series of blobs, “Storm clouds?”
“No, it’s the dumplings I was going to get for Aang. Since I doubt we’d make it to Ember Island before the stalls close at this point.” Sokka grinned, “But I’m sure he’ll understand, he appreciates the importance of the arts.” He tugged her canvas off its easel and brought it into the light, “It’s perfect, Azula.”
She shook her head, “No, it’s not.” And it wasn’t. The painting was riddled with mistakes. Spots where the paint was layered on too thick. Muddied even. A soft grin wormed its way into her lips nonetheless.
Because that was the point, wasn’t it?
Sokka prattled on about where to hang it. He pressed the brush back into her hand so she’d sign the thing. The savage ambassador of the Water Tribe had the graces to help her clean the rest of the evidence away. He scrubbed paint off the boards and kicked the rug back into place, hiding the remaining stains. Even walking her to dinner when they were finished.
“Hey Sokka,” Zuko began, a tray of komodo sausages poised in his hands for passing, “why are your hands blue?”
Azula’s eyes widened. Sure enough, though she’d scrubbed the evidence well enough from her own hands and face, Sokka’s fingers were still tinged in light blue.
They’d been caught blue handed.
But the ambassador shrugged. Sokka held up his hands to the light like he was examining them in earnest. He subtly winked at Azula beside him at the table, “Guess my hands are cold.”