Chapter Text
The apartment smelled like dust, old tea leaves, and someone else’s cooking mistakes.
Zuko stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, scar catching the thin light that slipped through the cracked window. The place was small — one room, crooked floorboards, a narrow kitchen that barely deserved the name. A single table leaned slightly to the left like it was tired of standing.
“This is it?” Zuko said flatly.
Iroh smiled like he’d just found a hidden palace. “Cozy, isn’t it? And affordable! The landlord only asked twice if we were spies.”
Zuko groaned and stepped inside anyway. The floor creaked under his boots.
Behind him, Jet lingered in the hall, sharp eyes scanning the stairwell before finally entering. He moved like he always did — light, ready, hand never far from the twin hooks at his back. Even in the Earth Kingdom disguise, there was something wild and alert about him, like a bowstring pulled too tight.
Jet didn’t comment on the apartment. He just checked the windows, tested the door lock, and positioned himself where he could see both exits.
“Paranoid much?” Zuko muttered.
Jet shot him a sideways look. “Alive much?”
Their eyes locked for a brief second — old friction, old grudges, buried under necessity. Ba Sing Se was supposed to be safe, but neither of them believed in safety anymore.
Iroh set down his pack with a satisfied sigh. “We will make this place our home for a while. A peaceful new chapter.”
Jet snorted quietly. “Peace doesn’t last in this city.”
Zuko noticed the tension in his voice. Jet didn’t trust Ba Sing Se any more than he trusted Zuko — maybe even less.
Zuko walked to the window and peeked out at the narrow street below. Vendors shouting, kids running barefoot, steam rising from food carts. Life stacked on top of life. No Fire Nation banners. No soldiers. Just people trying to survive.
For the first time in weeks, his shoulders loosened a fraction.
“Fine,” Zuko said. “We’ll make it work.”
Jet leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I’ll take first watch tonight.”
Zuko turned. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Jet interrupted calmly. “But I will.”
Their gazes met again — something unspoken passing between them. Not trust. Not yet. But a fragile truce, held together by shared danger and too many enemies.
The Lower Ring felt different when you weren’t looking over your shoulder every second.
Zuko kept his hands tucked in his sleeves as he and Jet moved with the evening crowd, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching. The streets were narrow here, packed with vendors and smoke from cooking fires, all of it layered over the constant hum of voices. A kid darted past with a paper kite, laughing like the world had never ended.
Jet watched him go with a tightness in his eyes that softened only a little.
They stopped at a cart where skewers hissed over hot coals. The vendor smiled, cheeks round and friendly. “Two for you and your brother?”
Zuko opened his mouth—then stopped.
Jet answered first, easy as breathing. “Yeah. Two.”
The vendor handed them food wrapped in paper. Zuko fumbled for coins, still stiff with the habit of being watched, of being wrong-footed by strangers who were too kind.
“Name for the order?” the vendor asked, mostly for fun.
Zuko’s spine went rigid.
Jet bumped him lightly with his elbow. “Lee,” Jet said.
Zuko shot him a look.
Jet didn’t meet it, just took the skewers and started walking again, like he hadn’t just plucked the lie out of the air and wrapped it around Zuko’s shoulders like a cloak.
Zuko followed, heat rising in his face. “Don’t say my—”
“I didn’t,” Jet said, biting into the skewer. “Relax.”
Zuko huffed. “I am relaxed.”
Jet snorted around a mouthful of food. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even sharp. It was… almost amused.
They walked in silence for a while, eating as they went. The food was cheap and greasy and far better than it had any right to be. Zuko hated how much he liked it.
They passed a stall selling little steamed buns shaped like turtle-ducks. A girl behind the counter waved enthusiastically. “Fresh! Still warm!”
Jet slowed, eyes flicking to Zuko like he was checking the temperature of a pot before touching it. “You want one?”
Zuko bristled automatically. “I don’t—”
Jet was already buying two.
Zuko stared at the bun in his hand like it was an insult. “I said I don’t—”
“You said you don’t need it,” Jet corrected, tone casual. “Different.”
Zuko took a bite and immediately regretted having pride.
Jet’s mouth twitched. “See? You’re human.”
Zuko glared. “I’m going to throw this at you.”
“Do it,” Jet said, and for the first time since they’d come to Ba Sing Se, there was something light in his voice. “I’ll duck and it’ll hit some guy trying to rob you.”
Zuko stopped walking. “You really think everyone’s trying to rob me.”
Jet shrugged, but it wasn’t defensive. It was honest. “In places like this? People take what they can. Sometimes it’s money. Sometimes it’s—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening for a beat.
Zuko watched him. He’d seen Jet angry before. He’d seen him righteous, sharp-edged, ready to burn the world down to keep it warm. But right now Jet looked tired. Like he’d been holding his breath for years.
Zuko lowered his voice. “You hate cities.”
Jet glanced around at the chaos—kids weaving between legs, the shout of a vendor, a man playing a battered flute for spare coins. “I hate what cities hide,” he said. “Forests don’t pretend.”
Zuko almost said neither do I, but the words stuck in his throat. Pretending was what he did now. Pretending was survival.
Jet looked at him again, and the edge softened. “But…” He nodded toward a group of old men arguing cheerfully over a game of pai sho on a crate. “This part isn’t so bad.”
Zuko followed his gaze. One of the men slapped down a tile and crowed like he’d conquered a kingdom. The others groaned and laughed and kept playing.
Zuko didn’t smile. But something in his chest eased anyway.
They kept walking, slower now, not rushing back to the apartment. Jet finished his skewer and wiped his hands on his trousers, then tipped his head toward a narrow alley where the noise of the street thinned into a quieter pocket of air.
Zuko stiffened. “We’re not going in there.”
Jet rolled his eyes. “I’m not leading you into a trap, Lee. I’m showing you something.”
Zuko hated how the fake name sounded like it belonged to him.
Still, he followed.
The alley opened into a tiny courtyard wedged between buildings. Someone had hung paper lanterns overhead. A little fountain burbled in the center, barely more than a trickle, but it made the whole space feel cooler. A few kids sat on the edge, dangling their feet in the water like they owned the world.
Jet leaned against the wall, shoulders loosening as if he’d finally set down a heavy pack. “Found this yesterday.”
Zuko stood beside him, awkward. “Why are you showing me?”
Jet glanced over, expression unreadable for a moment. Then he exhaled, and when he spoke his voice was quieter.
“Because you look like you’re about to break something every time someone smiles at you,” he said. “And because… if we’re doing this—” He gestured vaguely, meaning the city, the tea shop, the pretending. Meaning together, whether they wanted to admit it or not. “—you should know there are places that don’t feel like a cage.”
Zuko swallowed, suddenly aware of the warm bun in his hand, the lantern light above, the way the city could be gentle if it wanted.
“Thanks,” he said, and hated how sincere it sounded.
Jet smirked like he’d caught him doing something embarrassing. “Don’t get used to it.”
Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t planning to.”
Jet’s smirk widened. “Good.”
And then—like the world was playing a joke—Jet actually laughed. Not loud. Not for show. Just a short, real sound, like something he hadn’t allowed himself in a long time.
Zuko blinked, thrown off balance.
Jet pushed off the wall. “Come on. Iroh’s going to ask where we went, and I’m not explaining that you stopped to brood at a fountain.”
“I wasn’t brooding,” Zuko snapped automatically.
Jet started walking, still amused. “Sure, Lee.”
The street outside their window still had life—distant laughter, a cart rattling over stones, a drunk man singing off-key—but their apartment was mostly dark. One candle burned on the table, its flame bending every time the winter air slipped through the cracks.
Iroh sat on the floor with a kettle balanced over a small brazier, coaxing it toward a boil like patience could be brewed. Zuko paced.
Three steps. Turn. Three steps. Turn.
“You can’t be serious,” Zuko said, voice low but sharp enough to cut. “This—this is what we’re doing? Serving tea and pretending we’re not who we are?”
Iroh didn’t look up. “We are serving people something warm in a cold city. That is not nothing.”
Zuko stopped. His fists clenched in the sleeves of his worn shirt. “We’re living in a dump.”
Iroh’s brows lifted gently, as if Zuko had commented on the weather. “It is a modest home.”
“It smells like mildew. The floorboards creak like they’re warning the whole block every time I breathe.” Zuko’s anger built on itself, heat looking for a place to go. “And you act like it’s… it’s some kind of vacation.”
Iroh poured tea leaves into a cup, measured and calm. “Your mother used to say that even the smallest room could feel like a palace if there was peace inside it.”
Zuko’s scar twitched. “Don’t talk about her like this is what she’d want.”
Iroh’s hand paused. Just for a moment. Then he continued, setting the leaves down with care.
“What would you rather do?” Iroh asked quietly.
Zuko’s answer came too fast, like he’d been chewing on it all day. “Find the Avatar.”
Iroh finally looked up. The candlelight made his face softer, older. “And then?”
“Capture him,” Zuko said, as if the words were a rope he could cling to. “Take him to my father. Restore my honor. Go home.”
Home.
The word tasted like smoke.
Iroh held Zuko’s gaze for a long time. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t angry. It was heavier than that. “Zuko… your father has shown you what ‘home’ means to him.”
Zuko’s breath hitched. “Don’t.”
“You have risked everything for his approval,” Iroh continued gently, “and he has given you nothing but pain.”
Zuko flared. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Iroh’s eyes softened with something that made Zuko feel suddenly too exposed. “I know exactly what I am talking about.”
Silence stretched. The kettle began to hiss.
Zuko’s voice cracked around the next words, and he hated himself for it. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t wake up and—” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling with fury and fear and a loneliness he couldn’t afford. “This is all I have left.”
Iroh rose slowly, careful like he was approaching something skittish. “No,” he said. “It is all you have known. There is a difference.”
Zuko turned away before Iroh could see the wet shine in his eyes. He stared at the cracked plaster wall like it had answers. “We’re wasting time.”
Iroh stepped closer, voice steady. “We are buying time.”
“For what?” Zuko snapped, spinning back. “So you can play shopkeeper while the Avatar gets stronger? While the Fire Nation wins without me? While I rot in this city?”
Iroh’s tone didn’t change, but something firm settled into it, like a door closing. “So you can live.”
Zuko froze.
Iroh’s hand rested lightly on the table, anchoring himself. “Look at what you have done, nephew. You have survived storms, warships, deserts. You have fought men twice your age. You have endured humiliation and hunger and the cruelty of your own father.”
His voice softened. “And still you stand.”
Zuko’s throat burned. “None of it matters if I don’t—”
“If you do not please him?” Iroh finished. “Zuko, listen to me.” He took a breath, as if choosing every word with care. “You cannot find your worth in the eyes of someone determined not to see it.”
Zuko’s hands shook. “What am I supposed to do then?”
Iroh’s gaze held him, warm and unwavering. “Start a new life.”
Zuko stared, disbelieving. “You want me to just… give up.”
Iroh’s expression didn’t waver. “No,” he said softly. “I want you to let go of what is killing you.”
Zuko’s anger surged again, desperate and directionless. “You think serving tea is a new life? You think this filthy little apartment is going to fix me?”
“I think,” Iroh said, voice gentle but unyielding, “that you are allowed to be something other than your father’s weapon.”
The kettle whistled sharply, splitting the room.
Zuko flinched like it was a scream.
Iroh reached over and lifted it off the brazier, letting the sound die. He poured the hot water into two cups and carried one toward Zuko.
Zuko didn’t take it.
Iroh held it anyway, not forcing, just offering.
“Here,” Iroh said quietly. “For tonight… let us be only a tired uncle and a tired nephew, drinking tea in a small room.”
Zuko’s eyes darted to the cup, then away. His voice came out thin. “I hate it here.”
“I know,” Iroh said.
Zuko swallowed hard. “I hate that you’re acting like this is okay.”
Iroh’s smile was sad and kind at once. “It is not okay,” he admitted. “But it is… possible.”
Zuko’s breathing slowed, uneven. The fight was still in him, a fire with nowhere to burn. But beneath it, something else trembled—an exhausted hope he didn’t want to feel.
Iroh lowered the cup to the table between them. “You may chase the Avatar if you must,” he said. “But while we are here, I ask you to try something else, too.”
Zuko’s voice was rough. “What.”
Iroh met his eyes. “Try living.”
Zuko didn’t answer.
The candle guttered, throwing their shadows up onto the walls—two shapes in a cramped room, one restless and sharp, the other steady as a mountain.
Outside, Ba Sing Se breathed on, indifferent.
Inside, Zuko stood very still, as if he was afraid that if he moved even an inch, the life Iroh was offering might slip through his fingers like steam.