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Once and then twice and then three times a week, Lin takes the ferry out to Air Temple Island.
She goes to visit the children.
She goes to teach Ikki how to throw a punch, to give Meelo a cold glare when he forgets his manners and a warm one when he doesn't, to neatly snatch a romance out of Jinora's hands and hand her the latest novel (and later, to slip her some science fiction, because if she's going to have a guilty pleasure it at least ought to be the right one).
She may not be an airbender, but she can teach them a style of bending that Tenzin can't, aggressive enough that they can defend themselves—and the episode with Amon has proven what should have been realized long ago, that they will need to.
"I don't know how to thank you," Pema says, walking over from where she's put Rohan to sleep.
Lin is playing a game with the girls; they made it up, but she's tweaked it to help them work on their agility.
"They saved my life," she says. "I'm thanking them."
"Still," Pema says, and she does look incredibly grateful, "thank you," and she reaches up and kisses Lin on the cheek.
Lin blushes.
She can tell she's blushing, that her cheeks are turning an oh-so-delicate shade of pink, and she curses herself.
"Yes, well," she says, and goes back to the game.
Lying in bed one night, Meelo asleep between them, Rohan in the cradle at the foot of the bed, Pema turns to Tenzin.
"What was it like," she asks her husband, "to be in love with Lin Beifong?"
"Difficult," he says.
Pema laughs gently. "No," Tenzin says, "I was serious."
Of course you were, Pema thinks. But if she let that stop her from laughing at him, she'd have forgotten how long ago. He takes things so seriously, all the time. Lin does too; they're the same like that, as they are in their strength, their need to help people. But Tenzin is solemn where Lin is determined . . . oh, it's all Pema can think about lately, the ways her husband and her—no, she doesn't have a word for what Lin is to her. The ways that her husband and Lin are different and the same.
But Tenzin has more to say. "She was larger than life," he says. "Even when we were children. She was always larger than life, and back then, the Avatar's son . . . I was drawn to her because it was familiar, because I loved my parents and they were more than me, too." He nods. "It was familiar, but I didn't actually like it."
"I guess you just needed someone small," Pema says, and Tenzin smiles at her now, warmly. "Never small, Pema. My size."
Pema nods. "She wasn't the one for you," she says, and she chooses her words carefully even if she's not sure why.
"No," says Tenzin.
"But she's pretty great, isn't she?"
"Yes," Tenzin says, eyes bright. "Yes, she is."
There is an earthbending master visiting the city, and Jinora wants to go see him. "Chief Beifong told me about him," she says, at breakfast. "Chief Beifong says Mora's techniques can apply to any type of bending. Chief Beifong says working with Mora was one of the greatest things she ever did. Chief Beifong says he's worthy of a rare level of admiration."
Tenzin's older daughter has taken to following the police chief around like a second shadow, on her visits to the island and the few times they've run into her in the city. All he hears, it seems, is "Chief Beifong said, Chief Beifong did." He rubs at his forehead.
"Get Chief Beifong to take you, then," he says, and Jinora frowns.
"I asked," she says, "but she said she didn't want me tagging along that day. You don't think she minds usually, do you?"
Pema reaches across and takes her wrist. "That's enough jam, Jinora. And I'm sure Lin wouldn't make the trip out here so often if she minded you."
Strange as it seems, it's definitely true. Lin doesn't seem to mind Jinora's adoration at all. Which makes Tenzin wonder why she does at this earthbending demonstration.
"We'll go," he says, decisively, and is distracted from Jinora's celebrations by Meelo splashing his milk in Ikki's face.
Lin felt bad telling Jinora no, but she does need time away from the little ones, much as they've grown on her. And she wouldn't be able to appreciate this demonstration as much if she had the girl sitting next to her. Nevertheless, she's pleased when she spots Tenzin and Jinora sitting across the arena, Jinora's jaw dropping and eyes wide open, Tenzin looking impressed despite himself.
"To illustrate this principle," Mora calls out, "I need some assistance. I believe my old friend Lin Beifong is in the arena?"
Lin shakes her head, but gets up, heads down to the platform.
"And I require a bender or two of a different element than mine." Lin can't see the crowd, but she can imagine Jinora straining to raise her hand just an inch or two higher, and she knows the girl will get her wish. Mora's never been one to resist a challenge, and he's never worked with an airbender before; doing so for the first time in front of this crowd will appeal to him as these routine demonstrations rarely do.
Sure enough, she reaches the platform just as Tenzin and Jinora float down on a current of air. "Showing off," she mutters, and Tenzin whispers back, "You're one to talk."
Mora greets her with a crushing embrace, then settles down to showing the technique. Lin can tell it'll really benefit Jinora; she's bright and eager to learn, and Lin could see her becoming a master herself one day, if she wanted. Tenzin, on the other hand, is even more closed off than ever, as Mora teases Lin and hugs her and nearly pushes her off the platform. He's jealous, she realizes, mouth twisting into a smirk; she should be annoyed, not amused, but she's seen Tenzin and Pema together, knows they'll never separate, and under the circumstances it's almost cute. Still, afterward, while Jinora leaves to go to the bathroom, she goes up to him and whispers in his ear.
"I don't think you have much of a right to be jealous," she says. "We didn't have the most friendly of breakups."
Tenzin splutters, and he turns red in that way that Lin found so adorable at eighteen. “I wasn’t . . . that wasn’t . . . Lin!”
"Forgiven," Lin says, smiling, because she's not eighteen anymore, and she has better things to do than rage about losing this man. "You didn't have much to worry about anyway. Mora, ah, likes men."
She's not sure what she expected—for Tenzin to bluster, be taken aback—but instead he says, "So does Pema."
Now Lin's confused. "Yes. That seemed evident from the four children."
Tenzin laughs. "No, no. I mean, she does like men. But she also,” he stutters, not uncomfortable with whatever he’s saying but seeming unsure, “likes women.”
Lin actually doesn't have anything to say to that.
"Really?" she finally settles on, kicking herself for it. But Lin's never met anyone else like that. She could fall in love with a deep voice or a soft curve when she was young, simply doesn't care much about that sort of thing now, and she always thought she was strange; Mora's not the only man she's known who preferred men, and she's known women, as well, that wanted women. But until this moment she's never known of anyone like her.
Tenzin frowns. "No, I lied. Yes, really."
"Well," Lin says, "isn't that interesting."
Pema sits on the breezeway, enjoying a moment away from all four children; Rohan is with Tenzin, and the older ones are with Korra and Lin—or just Korra, actually, because here's Lin right now, walking towards her, and her heart jumps in her chest a little.
She spares a moment to laugh at herself, because she’s not sure when it got this far, from a little frisson at the sight Lin in that coat and tossing around the possiblity of deeper feelings to this, this aching emotion that she hasn’t felt since the first days she was in love with Tenzin. But on the other hand she does know how it happened, how the whole long winter of watching Lin heal and help the children and be herself, older and wiser, has brought Pema to something that she should probably admit to herself is love. She loves Lin’s steel, her solidity, something often missing on Air Temple Island; she loves the way Lin is sometimes uncertain, and she loves the way she never lets that rule her; she loves seeing that her children, clearly, love Lin. And she cannot help but be attracted to the woman in that coat.
But she takes a deep breath before Lin sits down, tries not to let it show in her face, because while Pema may be a foolish romantic, she is a married foolish romantic, and she should not be feeling this way.
And then Lin says, "Tenzin told me you are . . . interested in women."
Oh, damn. Because Pema's been sure for weeks now that her stupid feelings would have been obvious, to their object at least, except for the lack of that one clue. But it's over now, she supposes. She takes a breath. "So you know."
"I do," Lin says, serious as ever, "and I feel the same way."
No. This is—Pema doesn't know what this is, too good to be true and too horrible to bear at the same time. She shouldn't be in love like this, with someone who's not her husband; she shouldn't be overjoyed that Lin apparently returns her feelings. Pema fingers her robe, unsure what to do; next to her, Lin seems just as nervous, and that's so very confusing that she simply leans over and kisses her. Not on the cheek this time, but a real kiss.
It feels wonderful—different from Tenzin, and very much the same. Lin is hesitant, then she attacks the kiss with the same force and focus she does every problem. Pema takes her hand, searching for it with eyes closed—Lin can see with her eyes closed, she remembers, out of the blue, and it's a little sparkle in her stomach to remember something about this woman, a familiar feeling from those first months with Tenzin.
Tenzin.
Lin remembers him at the same time, apparently, because she's definitely the one to break the kiss. She looks at Pema.
"I don't think," she says, "we were quite on the same page there."
"Oh," Pema says, terribly embarrassed, because of course Lin only meant women, she didn't mean Pema.
"It's not, however," Lin continues, "a page I'm really opposed to being on."
Now Pema is even more embarrassed, because it is something she's opposed to, or it should be, and she's not sure how to tell Lin that, Lin who doesn't get along with Tenzin. "My husband," she finally says after much too long, and can't finish the sentence.
"Ah, yes," Lin says, "your husband."
"We have to tell him," Pema says, even though it hurts, because she's always told herself to be completely honest with Tenzin. It's never been hard before, though, and this time it is so hard. Telling him means giving up Lin, and suddenly, now that she almost has her, that seems as awful as giving up Tenzin would be.
Lin looks confused—it obviously isn't her impulse, but she looks at Pema and Pema can almost imagine she sees love in her eyes. "Then we'll tell him," Lin says, and she doesn't need to say the word together for Pema to hear it and sigh, as the weight on her shoulders grows a little bit lighter.
It is strange, seeing Pema and Lin allied, facing him. The two women in his life, if one doesn't count his daughters, and that he will resist until his dying day. They seem opposites to him, sometimes, and yet they've bonded. And he cannot deny that they share a backbone—a backbone that is surprisingly apparent now.
"Pema, do you want—" Lin says, and she shakes her head. "You won't say it right," says his wife, and Lin looks panicked for a moment and then nods. "Yours, then."
Pema takes a shaky breath, and Tenzin leans down, takes her hands in his. "Tenzin, love," she says. "I think I've fallen in love with Lin."
It's a shock, an enormous shock. He freezes in place, still holding her hands because he doesn't know what else to do. If he didn't know her so well, he wouldn't be able to tell, seeing her in the corner of his eye, that Lin is just as surprised, and he wonders what she thought they were here to say.
"Pema," he finally breathes, because he's been here before, saying goodbye to the woman he loves, and he knows this pain, although it's worse, so much worse, this way.
But "Oh!" she says, "Oh, Tenzin, I haven't fallen out of love with you," and he ought to be confused, but he isn't, because he hadn't fallen out of love with Lin, back then. Never really did, as Pema and Korra and the whole city know.
"But don't make me give her up," Pema is saying, but Tenzin is thinking of youthful mistakes, of dancing with one girl and kissing another and thinking he could go on forever like that, and even he is surprised by what he says next. "You made me give her up."
"Well, yes," Pema says. "But we were teenagers then. You've been living with teenagers, Tenzin. You know they rarely go right in love."
Tenzin laughs, and Pema kisses him, and then she kisses Lin, and suddenly that seems like the place to be, and Tenzin kisses them both, on their cheeks and their foreheads and all around, and mistakes they may have made, but it certainly seems to have turned out all right.
Four and then five and then six times a week, Lin takes the ferry out to Air Temple Island.
She goes to visit the children.
She goes to visit the children, and she goes to feel Pema's buttery kisses across her shoulders, to run her hands over the muscles of Tenzin's arms, to watch him kiss lower down Pema's belly as she twists a curl of Pema's hair around her finger. She learns that Tenzin worships the curve of Pema's back, while she herself prefers her lips and toes and wrists; she learns that Pema practically has a fixation with Tenzin's hands, could let them touch her however he likes for hours, while she prefers things a bit more straightforward with him. And she learns that Pema loves to kiss and whisper into the scars on her face, that Tenzin loves to feel her strength as much as he loves to use his, that this is not about three different pairings but one solid group.
She learns that she loves them.
Because it isn’t just time spent in bed, especially as winter finally, finally edges into spring and the children beg to be taken to picnics and outings and cricket games. She’s spending more time with them than she isn’t now, except for work, and even that sometimes involves taking Ikki, who’s suddenly decided all she wants is to be a cop, and letting some hapless junior officer mentor her for the day. The children grow accustomed to it, in the way she supposes children do; they call her Lin now, not Chief Beifong. “Rohan will never call you Chief,” Pema says one day, and it freezes her in her tracks, that casual assumption that she will be around to see Rohan grow up.
She thinks, for a moment, about how glad she is to have Pema’s steadiness in her life, how good it is to have Tenzin back without having to put on acolyte’s robes, how wonderful it is to have these children without needing to be their mother. She thinks about it for a moment, and then she leans over and kisses Pema, quickly, right in front of Meelo and Rohan. Pema smiles, and after that the adults are accustomed to it too.
Pema and Korra are washing dishes in the kitchen. Or rather, Pema’s washing dishes and Korra is scowling about the chore without realizing that she’s not doing any of the work. Pema doesn’t mind; she likes the rhythm of it, and she likes Korra’s company even if she isn’t helping.
“I hate spring,” Korra grumbles. It surprises Pema, who’s always loved the season, the way the world seems to come alive again. But she supposes to someone from the South Pole, even Republic City’s winter wouldn’t quite have the ice and snow that meant home.
“I’m sorry,” Pema laughs. “Maybe we’ll take a trip to visit Katara soon, will that help?”
“Yes,” Korra says, “but it’s not just the weather. Bolin keeps writing poems to his girlfriends about love in the air.”
“You and Mako aren’t having problems, are you?” Pema asks.
Korra snorts. “Are you serious? Our relationship is made of problems.”
Pema smiles. She has to concede the point. But it’s hard for her to see anything but happy endings, lately. “It’ll work itself out,” she says, and Korra grins. “You would say that.”
It’s a surprise—Korra seems, sometimes, like she wouldn’t be very smart, always wanting to hit things and chase things. But she’s perceptive, and Pema always forgets until she shows it.
Tenzin could watch them together for hours.
Not in bed, although he has a special appreciation for the way they kiss, fitting together so surprisingly well. But what he means is during the day, the way they smile at each other, they way they’re happier after they cross paths.
Pema watches Lin’s practice sessions with the children, and he sees them draw strength from each other; Lin takes Pema to the city for a day and they come back giggling and joyful; Pema reaches over and squeezes Lin’s hand as she passes by her, accepts a kiss to the top of her head as Lin sets the table.
He knows that the way some people would see it, he’s a lucky man—allowed, or so they might put it, to have both the women he wants.
He is lucky, actually. Not lucky to be with two women. Lucky to be with Pema, lucky to be with Lin, and lucky most of all that they are with each other.
Tenzin kisses his wife over breakfast and kisses their Lin over dinner.
Pema leaves the children and doesn’t feel guilty, rolls over in bed and sees one face or the other.
Lin shakes her head, smiling, at them both, and takes the ferry out to Air Temple Island.