Work Text:
Asami banks around the corner, and has to swerve to avoid hitting a group of girls playing in the street. She feels one of Bolin's arms tighten around her waist—he's probably steadying the luggage on the back of the moped with his other hand, bless him. The girls don't even look up from their game as she skids to a stop in front of a narrow brick building. The girl in the middle of the circle, who looks about six, is spinning, one hand extended as she sweeps a water whip just above the pavement. The other girls jump over the whip as it sweeps by them, and chant.
Thunderclap from a clear blue sky
Asked the moon who'll be my guy
Fire and flood, death and birth
I'll marry a man who can bend the earth
Asami takes her helmet off and runs a hand through her hair. "This is it. What do you think?"
Bolin is still struggling with his helmet; it's a large, supposedly, but a little too snug anyway. Finally it pops off his head, leaving his hair sticking out in all directions. "Well . . . it's nicer than most of the places I've lived, for sure," he says. "Seems like a step down from your last place, though."
"Which is now a secure military facility, to which I may be admitted someday if I play my tiles right." Asami locks the moped, then starts on the straps which hold the luggage precariously on the back of it. "If I'm the CEO of Future—sorry, Republic City Industries—it's only because I'm the only person with any knowledge of the workings of the company who isn't currently in jail. The city has saddled me with a board of directors who don't trust me an inch, and if I'm seen living it up somebody will find a way to make political hay out of it. So I am being humble."
"Humble, right," says Bolin, juggling packages. They manage to get everything up three flights of stairs in fewer trips than Asami expected. She hadn't counted on how strong Bolin is, or how many boxes he's willing to stack one on top of the other, and almost, but not quite, drop. He sets the last stack inside her front door with a rattle, and then they have to hunt through the boxes to find some drinking glasses. Asami did label them, but her handwriting's so bad even she can't read it—there's one box which she was sure said kitchen on it, until Bolin reached in and pulled out a pair of frilly underthings. Asami takes one look at his face and dissolves into giggles, and soon he's laughing too. They finally find the glasses, fill them with slightly rusty water from the tap, and clink them together before drinking. Asami can almost believe that this will be home, one day.
"I don't remember packing this." Among the boxes still by the front door is a crate that doesn't quite come to her knee. Her mind races with possibilities—bomb, venomwasp nest, very short assassin—
"Oh, that's, um. I got you a housewarming present." Bolin levers the top open and lifts out a small tree in a green clay pot; its leaves are round and fleshy, like little discs.
Asami's first unworthy thought is another thing to take care of, but if Air Temple Island has ten thousand trees on it, her apartment might have one. The memories of that place, good and bad, aren't ones she wants to let go of yet. "It's lovely."
"It's a money tree," says Bolin. "Because, see, the leaves look kind of like silver yuans, and they say if you have one in your house then oh no Asami please don't cry."
Asami slides down the wall—due to a misunderstanding with the cabinet-makers, the furniture won't be here until tomorrow—and puts her face in her hands. It's suddenly all too much. "I'm all right," she says, voice muffled against her fingers. "I'll be all right."
"Will you?" Asami looks up to find Bolin sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her. "I mean, with everything?"
Asami lifts her chin. "I can take care of myself."
"You can fight, I've seen that," says Bolin. "Although sometimes it's more useful to look like you can fight, and you—anyway, someone tries to mug you, I feel sorry for the mugger. But can you cook? Fix the pipes if they get clogged? Ever taken your clothes to a coin laundry?"
"The pipes, sure," says Asami. "The rest of it—I'll have to figure it out somehow, won't I?"
"Not by yourself," says Bolin. "You need help, you know where to find me."
Asami nods. "I've been wondering, what made you decide to leave Air Temple Island? I know Pema asked you to stay as long as you wanted. She's crazy about you."
Bolin makes a muscle and a false-modest face. "I am pretty good at opening those stubborn pickle jars. But if I'm going to be helping get the league started again, I've got to be in the city. It'll be weird being without Mako, for sure, but he's got his own stuff going on, and I could do without—" It's endearing how quickly Bolin can go from zero to crimson. The tips of his ears look like they're about to catch fire. "Um."
"I can understand that," says Asami. "And hey, if you need your pipes unclogged or anything, you know where to find me. Deal?"
"Absolutely." Bolin grins, spits on his hand, and holds it out. Asami looks at it dubiously, and leans in on her knees for a hug instead.
Bolin's arms are strong and his chest is broad, and it occurs to Asami belatedly that she's getting saliva on her shirt anyway, but it's okay. She feels like she could stay in Bolin's arms forever and be safe there. Which is dumb, because she felt like that about Mako, too, and her life started coming to pieces as soon as he walked into it.
What if it had been Bolin she'd hit with her moped, all those months ago? But it wasn't. And Asami has few enough friends as it was; she doesn't want to risk the ones she has.
When Bolin leaves, she settles her arms on the windowsill and watches him make his way down the street. He turns back, looks up, waves; she blows him a kiss. Beneath her window, the girls are still playing jump-the-water-whip.