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Zuko piles the Water Tribe siblings and the very unconscious, very glowy Avatar into his boat/canoe/infiltration-device, Appa trailing sluggishly behind them in the frozen seawater, then casually summons an absurd amount of human strength to paddle them all the way back to the ship.
The ship where Sokka finds himself cornered by half a dozen pointy Fire Nation spears and some, in fact, very ugly white-skull masks the moment the boat is hauled up. Him, and Katara, and trussed Aang and the still-dripping Appa.
Sokka sighs and puts his hands up, because when will these soldiers understand that they are already Very Intimidating through their singular conquest of the world, no we do not need that reaffirmed by the very sight of your faces, please put your weapons down, Katara can kick your fire-happy asses before you even try stabbing me. "Woah there, chill out, hotpants," he tells them.
Ha. Chill out, because they're firebenders, and —
"Put your weapons down," Zuko interjects, reaching forward and tipping the spearhead down with his bare fingers (the absolute fool; doesn't he know those things are sharp?). "They're, um — allies." Coughs. "That's, uh, that's an order from your commander…?"
Katara snorts and nudges the boy. "Commander, huh? Allies? "
He flushes, but continues to glare at the bounds of perplexed navy until their resolves loosen and they begin to disperse in weaponry, one of the red helmets even vanishing below deck (presumably) in search of The Uncle, second-in-command and thus the go-to for Zuko's exceptional loss of sanity.
Probably.
Maybe the crew wakes Iroh up every time Zuko returns from an Avatar hunt; Sokka wouldn't know.
Sokka productively checks Aang's knots, tugs away the slack of rope at the ankles, before moving onto the wrists for the fifth time in the past half-hour. Katara watches him with bells of tingling concern rippling in her eyes, while Zuko anxiously taps his foot against the deck and stares at his crew like he doesn't trust them to not eat the last piece of metaphorical seal jerky.
The knots hold tight.
Satisfied with his work, he stands up and turns to their firebender, waiting for ideas on what the fuck to do next, because he definitely doesn't have any. Katara follows his lead, turning away from Aang until the absolutely oblivious guy catches on.
"Is there anything that needs to be done before I come up with something to say to Uncle?" Zuko finally asks.
Sokka looks down at his handiwork for the sixth time and gives them one last tug, before sighing and acknowledging to himself that this just isn't going to do. After all, he's the Avatar — he's got the ability to literally shoot fire from his fingertips, and Sokka would know that rope? Is a flammable item.
A very flammable item.
"You don't suppose you have an inflammable jail cell for when you'd hypothetically capture the nonexistent Avatar, do you?"
Zuko's not entirely sure why Sokka wants to see his ship's holding place, though he does have a faint inkling, so he leads them below deck in the opposite direction of the chamber rooms, gritting his teeth at the way their steps echo in transference throughout the halls. Katara's filled a sealskin pouch with salted seawater and Sokka's hand lingers around at his shoulder, as if reaching towards a weapon that isn't there; and while Zuko knows that the crew never treads this area, he understands the sentiment. He's still wearing his own dao, after all.
He lights his palm as the torches become fewer in between, illuminating the fire insignia-adorned foyers with the greens and golds of sunlit fields. Looks like the dragons' lessons stuck, he thinks idly to himself.
Eventually, they reach a locked door at the end of the lengthy metal hall. Zuko stares at the lock for a long moment, before digging his (very useful) screwdriver out of his belt and picking it.
(It's been too long.)
Why do you have a screwdriver on you? would probably be asked, were it not for the unease the eerie poltergeist silence radiates for induction.
“Alright,” Sokka announces abruptly, rubbing his hands together after unceremoniously dumping the unconscious Avatar onto the ground. Zuko's actually impressed that he could carry the boy for that long, considering the teenager's distinct lack of comparative muscle. “First order of business: securing Aang.”
Katara whips her head around to stare at her brother in the dim lighting of the brig, blue eyes widened to an almost comical extent. “What!? Why would we do that?”
Sokka rolls his eyes. “In case he tries to kill us. Duh.”
“Um, Sokka,” Zuko breaks in. “And how, exactly, are you sure that that’s on his schedule?”
Sokka turns around to look the firebender in the eye. “Oh, I’m not,” he says amicably, with a nearly morbid cheeriness to his tone. “I’m just taking precautions. Hey — don’t look at me like that. When you’ve been in enough fist fights with seal-otters in the past, you’ll know very well that you don’t-not tie up potentially dangerous creatures. Or, rather, in the case of the fire-spitter, chain them.”
“You were in a fist fight with a seal-otter? ” Zuko repeats, baffled.
“Did you just call Aang a creature? ” Katara demands at the same time, scandalized.
"Oh please, that's not what I meant," Sokka says dismissively, reaching towards the spiral of chain curled on the floor. "Let's just — ugh —"
Katara snorts, but her face doesn't lighten. "Are you sure the chains are necessary? I thought you were so proud of your knots."
"Yes." Sokka gestures for Zuko to bring Aang over with an ungloved hand as he turns a shackle around with the other. "Kat, you… you didn't see it. My instincts just don't trust that he's going to be the same." Sees the look on her face, and adds in a softer, maybe guilty voice, "You know I wouldn't do this to Aang in any other situation. He's our friend. But he's also the Avatar, and he has a lot of power, and if there's any chance he's not — not normal , we need to be prepared."
"He's right," Zuko breaks in shortly, in spite of the way he'd planned to stay out of their discussion. "We can't take any risks. Just look at him already."
(Subconsciously, he looks over at the crumpled boy. The airbender's arrow tattoos of mastery continue to pulse the worst shade of red.
Zuko bites his tongue, and wishes he could wipe away the burning cinders of his father's doing on the child whose culture had already been burned too far.)
Sokka finishes securing the chains around Aang's wrists, allowing Zuko's correction to binding it further, then around the ankles. Katara still doesn't look happy with it, but she doesn't object, and Zuko doesn't say anything.
"Also, shifts," Sokka announces. "Since I'm the nonbender, I'm legally without obligation to take one." With that, he slides onto the crappy metal floor, yanks his hood over his head, and slumps forward until his head touches his knees and he looks somewhat like a miserable blue boar-q-pine.
"Since when has being a nonbender been a privilege?" Katara demands indignantly.
"Can't hear you," Sokka's muffled voice responds. "Maybe you and the other bender in the room could have a, I don't know — a heart-to-heart while I take a nap because I did not ask to run through this ostrich-horse shit again. And because it sounds like you two have Issues."
Zuko stares at the inanimate form, then at the bewildered waterbender beside him. "How much do you want to bet that Toph's crushed her parents' house with an oversized boulder within the past twenty-four hours?" he asks eventually.
Yet it goes right through Katara's ears, because for once she decides to take her brother's suggestion at the time he'd rather her do anything but that. Mainly for the fact that it was a suggestion that regarded Zuko's feelings . And he wholeheartedly hates his feelings because they're always too loud and too big, and he never knows what to do with them when people try to talk about them except grind them into coal dust and lash out the whip.
Or cry. Crying's always an option.
"You died, Zuko," she finally says. "You — What the fuck were you talking about?"
Zuko swallows, and looks away. Anywhere but her eyes, because they're going to be filled with anger, and bitterness, and all the wretched things that are destined to be thrown back at him whenever he tries to be good. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Katara lets out a noise of frustration, throws her arms up. "You said that you don't deserve to say anything. You told me to stop trying to save your damned life. What's that supposed to mean?" she demands, voice rising and hurt.
Zuko cringes.
I know I've done nothing but fuck up all my life, okay? he'd wanted to say. And I never made it up to Uncle, so he doesn't want to hear from me, and you don't deserve to have to hear my stupid fucking feelings. So just let me die in peace for once, even though I'm unlucky enough to go out through Azula's lightning, but it's better me than you —
Oh. Katara's hugging him.
Zuko doesn't know what to do with this armful of warm-sister-shape, so he just lets his arms go limp and tries to not push her away, dark hair nudging into his chest and soft arms too tight.
"Please don't ever do that again," she mumbles. "I'm — I'm fucking serious. I'll drag myself into the Spirit World and kill you all over again if you die on me like that, and you don't want me to go through all that effort to murder your sorry ass, okay?"
"... Okay," he answers. "I'll, uh — I'll be sure to not technically-die for you again. Yeah."
"Please don't ever say that again," Blue Boar-Q-Pine Sokka says from the corner. "That was a horrible sentence, and that's saying something."
('I'd rather it be me than you' doesn't leave his head, but he doesn't say it.)
"Why do you have a child chained up in here?"
Iroh's voice comes loud and demanding, all three of them jumping in unprompted guilt to turn around and look at the old man. He strides forward, heavy grey brows narrowed and weight of steps unadulterated. From the corner of her eye, Katara can see Zuko flinch ever so slightly, backing up a half step before freezing in place.
"Funny you ask," Sokka says with his head still tucked beneath his knees, before Katara can remember to open her mouth. "He's —" He jerks a thumb in Aang's general direction "— actually the Avatar."
Iroh looks unimpressed and definitely a little exasperated, and considering the likelihood that Zuko's run this trail down many times over the course of three years, Katara can't even blame him. "Young man," he says slowly, "you do realize that the Avatar has not been seen for a hundred years, correct?"
"Oh yeah, I'm well aware," Sokka answers immediately, delighting at the chance to wallow in his own self-pity — even unfolding himself to look up. "That's why, statistically speaking, the universe has been specifically designed to vindicate me . I did not sign up for this spirit-y, utter magic-seal-otter shit when I got birthed, yet Aang just had to pop out of the iceberg during the fifteenth year of my life and drag me into the dirt along with him." Her older brother stops his monologue to let out a deep sigh, tilting his head back to stare at the dark roof. "Why Zuko would ever want to get caught up in this, I have no clue," he adds.
"Shut the fuck up, Sokka," Zuko says automatically, being the first thing he's said since his stupor at the appearance of his uncle.
Iroh's gaze flickers over Katara and Sokka, as if actually noticing them for the first time even though he'd been addressing the latter half a minute ago. "Nephew," he says, "who are these poor children you've recruited in your hunt for the Avatar?"
"Oh no, there's no Avatar-hunting going on here," Katara assures hurriedly.
Sokka snorts.
Zuko looks at them frantically, then at Aang, then back to Iroh like a nervous polar-dog. "Ah, um. Uncle. This is… my friend. Friends. From the Water Tribe."
Maybe they should've talked about the script before showing up.
"Uh, this is Katara. A waterbender. She's like, a… friend? And Sokka, who is an asshole — "
The 'asshole' in question sputters, emerging entirely from his cocoon to defend his honor. "I'm Sokka, best warrior of the Southern Water Tribe, and White Lotus initiate," he brags.
"Sokka," Zuko hisses. Presses his head against the brig's walls. "Allow me to correct myself. Sokka isn't an asshole, he's a fool."
"Asshole, fool — I'd say they're pretty interchangeable," the boy in question offers.
Iroh looks lost, maybe on the verge of going back to his room for a very long nap in the hopes that his nephew's hallucinatory friends will be long gone by the time he wakes up — and again, Katara can't blame him after living with her brother for over fourteen years.
Finally, after an excruciating silence, the former general sighs. "I think I should allow you two sort out your differences," he says, effectively excusing himself. "Nephew, please meet me at your chambers when you're… done."
"Not a bad idea," Katara mutters, but he's already gone, and she's left to listen to the petty squabbling of two teenaged boys. Lets herself release a long sigh, before sliding down beside Aang with the full, undeniable intention to take a nap herself.
And then Aang's firelight arrows go blank.
It's too much, Aang. You can't do this. We need to get out.
Get out, before it's too late.
Stop.
Get out.
Out out out outoutout —
Aang floats. Everything is hazy and grey and his mind feels like it's drowning in a sheet of fog, like someone threw a bison-fur blanket over it and put him to an injection of deep, deep sleep. It's too much, too thick and frigid and nauseating, but his limbs don't move and his clothes are crinkled scrolls of paper, and something inside him feels like it's been set on fire.
Where am I? he tries to ask. Wh —
A quiet white buzz falls over him. His soul feels… cold. Cold, and numb, and empty.
He kind of almost likes it, the clearness washing over his being.
Who am I? something tries to ask.
But the lull is so, so comforting, from the screaming in his head.
And then —
Something dark and colorless and slippery spreads through his vision, like inkstones dipped in frigid lake water. His eyes burn, and he wants to scream or yell or cry, for someone named Gyatso or for someone named Roku Kyoshi Kuruk Yangchen Wan , he's not sure who, but his head hurts and his heart hurts and his fingers start to spasm and —
Aang jerks back into his own body, the sound of rattling chains hitting his ears as he lurches forward and throws up everything in his stomach for what feels like forever. Someone yells and there's a clattering of feet, three pairs, light footsteps, I can take on three measly benders trying to assassinate the rightful leader —
Wait, what?
Aang hunches miserably over the disgusting goop, wrists hanging behind his back in chains in a way all-too-similar to Zhao's bindings at the Pohuai Stronghold, and desperately holds back the urge to retch his guts out any further. He's so dizzy, to the point where it feels like someone took his heart out with blood dripping from it and placed it in another person's body, and he's waking up in the wrong consciousness. A shadow falls over him, and he looks up to see a familiar blue-clad figure bent down to his level.
Oh.
Katara throws her arms around him and sobs. Her long skirts dip into the grossness coalescing around their knees, but she ignores it and buries her face in his shoulder and cries and cries until it sounds like nothing more than a hoarse gasp, like she's been crying for too long and has reached the point where there's nothing left in her throat.
It's alright, is what he tries to say, but what comes out is, "My head hurts."
It does. It hurts so much and he doesn't know why.
A pair of familiar shoes come into his sight, poking the vomit spewed on the cold metal floor, before kneeing Katara aside. "Scooch aside, Kat. I need to interrogate him."
"Sokka!" Katara protests, detangling herself. "I —"
"Let him go," a third voice cuts in, and —
Aang snarls at Zuko, the traitorous criminal whelp son failure. Zuko scrambles backwards faster than a lemur scuttling up a lychee tree, eyes blown wide and dilated — why is he scared of Aang, he's just Aang — and suddenly Sokka's machete is positioned beside his ear, because his index and middle fingers are pressed against each other to form a pointless triangle at the fire prince, and his heart thuds too loud in his chest.
"Katara, step away," Sokka says, lowly. "Right. Now."
And Katara's looking at him with something akin to fear in her eyes as she stands up, like she doesn't know who he is anymore, which is silly because he's Aang, he's her friend and her student and he needs her to stop opposing him.
"W — Wait," Aang starts frantically, dropping his wrists back into his lap. (That's a long, long chain.) "I just forgot for a moment. That Zuko's our friend now. I was just confused. Sorry, buddy." He laughs, but it doesn't sound quite right to his own ears. It's too soft and high and stupid or cold and low and angry; he's not sure which.
Dead silence.
"You did chase us around the globe for half a year," Katara concedes to the firebender, hasty. "It's totally understandable to be disoriented. I'd probably be alarmed, too, if I saw you after being knocked out for half a day."
(Half a day?)
Zuko huffs and crosses his arms, yet doesn't deny it.
Sokka looks at Aang suspiciously, but moves the machete away from its dangerous position. "I need to know your worldly goals. Thoughts on World Domination?"
(The world deserves to burn to the ground. These people don't have any right to harvest the crops and walk the land, don't have any right to exist in this world, when there are people they have killed and people they have forgotten.
No, he can't alienate the master waterbender in his midst. He can't eliminate the fool and the failure, because she can help him. She can —)
"Sokka! Will you stop that? Can't you see? Aang's perfectly fine!" the master waterbender is saying.
Yes. Yes, Aang is perfectly fine.
They wouldn't understand.
Aang grins up at them, repressing a grimace at the remains of last time's dinner dripping hotly between his teeth, and raises his chained wrists. The action is unusually smooth and easy, and feels like something he did in another time, but he's not sure when or why.
Three pairs of eyes gaze down at him. Four blue ones, two unrelenting and two hopeful. One gold and animalistically untrusting, and one sliver of milky white.
Sokka sighs, tucking the machete away, and Zuko reaches forward.
As Aang springs up the stairs towards the sun in threes, unchained wrists twirling his closed glider, he doesn't see the way Sokka watches him.