Chapter Text
“Why!”
A roar tore out of Zuko's chest. It dragged up from his gut and, in frustration, threw his niuweidaos against the training yard walls hard enough to almost crack them into pieces.
He fixed his posture, going back into a fighting stance, and drove a punch straight into the air.
Nothing.
He drove another sharp punch forward. Still nothing sparking out of his hands. His whole body followed through on pure, desperate muscle memory—shoulders snapping, ribs twisting, breath pushing hard through his teeth—
Nothing.
No heat. No spark. Not even a hint of smoke to suggest there was still a soul left in him.
For one horrible second, there was only the ringing silence of the courtyard and the wet, rhythmic drip of sweat falling off his jaw onto cobble stone floor.
Zuko swore, a low, vicious string of Fire Nation curses, and spun into a kick that should’ve split the air open. Instead, his boot skidded against the tiles, nearly sending him sprawling. He caught himself, hands braced on his knees, head hanging low as his breath came in ragged, burning hitches.
The training yard was a furnace. All black stone and trapped noon-day heat, but he felt cold. Deep in his marrow, under the skin where the poison had lived for weeks—he felt so hollow.
He still remembered the cold rot of the poison, the fever-dreams where his chest puffed hard and his groans were wet and guttural. But mostly, he remembered waking up in the grey light of dawn to find Katara fast asleep beside him, her face nuzzled into the heat of his bicep. She’d held onto his arm like he was a lifeline, her soft breaths blowing against his skin while he stayed perfectly still, too afraid to break the moment.
It had been weeks since the fever broke. He was supposed to be better already!
“You’re forcing it!”
Katara’s voice drifted across the yard—cool and steady, and way too close for a man who currently felt like a failure in every sense of the word.
Zuko scrubbed a hand over his face, damp hair sticking to his forehead in messy, dark clumps. “I’m not forcing it,” he muttered, not looking at her. “I’m failing.”
She was sitting on the low stone bench, legs crossed beneath the blue fabric of her skirts, her waterskin resting in her lap. The sunlight caught on the sharp line of her collarbones and the soft, deep brown of her shoulders. She’d tied her hair up, but the humidity had already teased out messy, curling strands that stuck to the back of her neck.
Zuko looked away. Looking at Katara lately felt like staring at the sun—it made his head swim in a way he didn't have the energy to deal with.
He dropped down onto the bench beside her with a grunt. He was radiating heat, a physical weight that seemed to press into the space between them.
“The Council’s already talking about a regency,” he said, the words coming out bitter and fast. “They think I’m done. The sixth assassination attempt since I've take the throne, and suddenly I’m too fragile to lead. I swear, I am never drinking tea with another delegate again without someone checking it first. If I even see a teapot, I’m going to fucking lose it.”
Katara hummed, a soft, vibrating sound.
Zuko kept going, the frustration finally bubbling over. “And Uncle.. Spirits, Katara, I love him, but if he tells me one more time that 'patience is the key to a locked door,' I might actually lose it.”
He gestured sharply, his forearms flexing, the muscles corded and slick with sweat. Every time he breathed, the scar tissue across his chest pulled taut, a map of everywhere he’d been broken.
“They think because I can’t firebend, I’ve forgotten how to lead. It’s insulting. It’s—”
He stopped. Katara hadn’t said a word.
Zuko frowned and glanced over. She wasn’t looking at the training yard, or the palace. She was staring at him. Her fingers had loosened around the mouth of her waterskin, the glowing blue liquid lifting out in a lazy, rhythmic swirl, but her eyes were fixed somewhere around the center of his chest. She looked like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
“...Katara?”
She didn't blink. “Hm?”
“You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The staring thing. It’s weird.”
Finally, she looked up, though her expression didn't shift from that strange, dazed intensity. “I’m literally healing you, Zuko. I’m monitoring all your tangled up friction!”
“Oh.”
He exhaled, scrubbing a hand through his hair. That made sense. She was a Master healer, renowned for her expert healing techniques all over the world. She was probably seeing chi pathways all jumbled or something.
“Right. Sorry.”
The water drifted closer, a shock of cold against his overheated skin as she guided it over his shoulder. Zuko hissed, the relief sinking deep into the ache of his muscles.
“There’s still a massive blockage here,” she murmured.
She leaned in, way in. Close enough that he could feel the ghost of her breath against his collarbone. Close enough to smell the salt of her skin and the faint, medicinal scent of the herbs she used in the infirmary. His entire body went painfully still, every nerve ending suddenly firing at once.
Katara’s fingers hovered just a hair’s breadth from his chest, her eyes tracking the way his pulse jumped in the hollow of his throat. “Relax,” she said softly.
“I am relaxed.”
“Your shoulders are up to your ears and your heart is racing. You’re sitting like you’re waiting for a blow to land.”
“I’m just... thinking about the ports,” Zuko lied, his voice sounding thin and a little too high. “If your father follows through on his threat to drown my advisors himself for letting that bastard attempt to poison me, then the whole treaty goes under, and I can’t exactly stop him if I’m sitting here like a - a flavorless piece of jerky!”
The water slid slowly, agonizingly, down the center of his chest, following the line of his sternum.
“Mmm.” Katara’s voice was a low vibration.
Zuko’s breath hitched. He watched her hand, the way her thumb brushed—maybe accidentally—against the warm skin just above his waistband. She looked like she was in a trance, watching the water move over the ridges of his stomach.
“Sorry,” she said faintly, her voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. She didn't move away. If anything, her thigh pressed firmer against his. “Keep talking, Zuko. I’m concentrating.”
“On... on your dad murdering my advisors?” Zuko asked, his brain currently the size of a marble.
“Sure,” she breathed, her eyes fixed entirely on his mouth. “Whatever you want.”
---
The training yard was a bust. Again.
By the time they retreated to Katara’s private healing room, Zuko was a walking disaster of salt, sweat, and simmering resentment. The room was tiny—barely enough space for the low infirmary bed, a cabinet of glass vials, and the heavy, humid scent of Katara’s specific blend of oils. It was cramped, private, and smelled entirely too much like her.
“Lay down,” Katara commanded, already reaching for a bowl of fresh water.
Zuko did as he was told, his long legs hanging off the end of the narrow mattress. He felt exposed, his bare chest still heaving slightly from the heat outside.
“I told you, I think it’s all pretty much gone,” he muttered, watching her shadow move against the wall. “I don’t feel sick anymore. I just... feel empty.”
“And like I said, I want to be sure,” she said, her voice dropping into that low, serious register she only used when she was working.
She dipped her hands into the basin, the water rising in a familiar, glowing blue ribbon. She moved her palms over his solar plexus, and for a few minutes, the only sound in the room was the low hum of the water and Zuko’s own ragged breathing. Zuko kept his eyes glued to a specific crack in the ceiling, but every five seconds his resolve would crumble, and his gaze drifted up to track the blue light reflecting in Katara’s focused eyes. The moment she shifted or her gaze flickered toward his, he’d snap his head away with neck-breaking speed, suddenly finding a random speck of dust on the far wall fascinating. It was so pathetic of him to be acting like a teenager at his grown age, and he was terrified she could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm under her palms.
Suddenly, she stopped. The blue glow of her hands flickered and died as she let the water splash back into the bowl.
“It’s not enough,” she muttered, her voice dropping into that low, scratchy register that made Zuko’s heart do a stupid little hop. She stepped into the gap behind his head, looming over him until he couldn’t see anything but her. "The regular stuff... it’s not reaching the deep pathways." She splayed her hand flat over the center of his chest, her palm heavy and searingly hot against his skin. “I can still feel a little bit of a shadow in your veins up here- " she motioned her hand over his sternum,"- feels like it's dragging.”
“Oh?” Zuko looked up at her, his throat dry. “W-what does that mean?”
“It means I’m going to have to use the other 'method',” she said, her eyes taking on a focused, steely glint that made the hair on Zuko’s arms stand up. “To really feel the flow from the inside.”
Gulp.
Zuko’s heart slammed against his ribs. He knew exactly what she meant.
He should have been terrified, any other person would have been. But as Katara’s stance shifted—her movements becoming sharper, more controlled, her eyes taking on a focused, steely glint—Zuko felt a dark, electric jolt of adrenaline shoot straight to his gut and down to his lower half.
Oh Agni, he was so far gone. He found it so fucking hot. The way she took control, the way she could literally feel the blood singing in his veins—it was the most intimate, terrifyingly beautiful thing he’d ever experienced. Not that he’d ever tell her. He’d sooner jump into the the South's icy tundra than admit that her bending his very life force made him want to pull her down onto the bed, and never let her go.
She raised her hands, and the air in the room seemed to thicken. Zuko felt the familiar, heavy tug in his chest. It wasn't a painful feeling; it was a deep, internal pressure, like his whole body was suddenly tuned to her every movement.
Katara leaned way over him, her body angled so close that a stray lock of her hair brushed his shoulder. From this angle, pinned flat while she stood at the top of his head, Zuko’s vision was filled with her. Every time she shifted to adjust the flow, her chest—fully developed and tantalizingly heavy—hovered right over his face, swaying and lightly bouncing with her movements.
Uncle! he shrieked internally, his eyes squeezed shut so hard his face hurt. Think of Uncle and his endless tea spiels! Think of Master Pakku’s shriveled, judgmental scowl! Sokka—think of Sokka and his stinky, three-day-old socks AGNI!
None of those things were working. Especially not with the way Katara’s fingers were currently tracing the line of his pectoral muscle, her nails accidentally grazing his nipple as she guided the flow of his blood. A jagged, pathetic sound caught in the back of his throat—half-gasp, half-moan.
“What was that?” Katara murmured, her voice sounding like warm honey.
Zuko’s eyes snapped open. She was hovering inches from his face, her blue eyes wide and searching.
“Nothing!” Zuko croaked, realizing his mistake because she was right there. Her face was framed by her falling hair, creating a curtain that shut out the rest of the world. “Just... the pressure. It’s a lot.”
Liar, his brain screamed. Disgusting, dishonorable liar!
Katara didn't pull back. If anything, she leaned lower, her breath ghosting warm and sweet over his lips. Her chest practically brushed his heated skin, and Zuko felt like he was about to spontaneously combust.
“Maybe you were right, I don’t feel any residue,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to his mouth for a split second. “Your blood feels clear. All your pathways are open. Physically, you’re fine.”
Zuko swallowed hard, his throat feeling like it was full of sand. “Then why can’t I bend?”
“Maybe it’s not the poison anymore,” she said, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Maybe it’s a mental block. Like when you went to see the Sun Warriors with Aang back then. You were holding back because you were afraid of your own fire.”
The mention of Aang was like a splash of cold water. Zuko took the opening, desperate to find his footing.
“Aang, huh? He... how are things with him lately? I haven’t spoken to him much since, uh... you know.”
He trailed off, his heart hammering. He didn't want to poke at a sensitive topic, but he had to know where the land lay.
Katara didn’t even flinch. She just shrugged, a casual movement that caused her tunic to shift and her cleavage to bounce right in his line of sight. Zuko’s brain short-circuited.
“He’s fine,” she said nonchalantly, her focus still on the blue glow between her palms. “He’s been spending a lot of time with the Air Acolytes. Helping them settle into the temples. It’s good for him. He’s getting real close with a few of them, actually.”
“That’s... that’s good,” Zuko managed, his eyes accidentally tracking the rhythmic movement of her chest as she gestured. “Uh-huh. Real good.”
“It is,” Katara continued, her voice light. “He’s always wanted to rebuild the whole civilization. He’s ready for the whole ‘legacy’ thing. Kids. Lots of them. And he’s finally finding people who are on that same page.” She leaned in closer to inspect something that was near his collarbone. “I sure as hell wasn’t ready for that yet. I’m twenty-one, Zuko. I want to travel, I want to heal, I want to live. I’m not looking to be a mother to a nation before I’ve even seen half of it.”
“Right. Yeah. No kids,” Zuko repeated like a broken record. “Uh-huh..”
He was staring. He knew he was staring. It was so hard not to when they were literally moving across his face, and she had no care in the world that his own heart was in the palm of her hands. He always knew he loved women that could easily kill him, but now it seemed like he spoke it into existence.
“Anyway,” Katara said, her eyes finally snapping back to his. She was so close he could see the reflection of the blue water in her pupils. “He’s happy. I’m happy. But you? You’re a mess. I can feel your pulse going a hundred beats per minute.”
Fuck! “It’s the... the bloodbending doing that,” Zuko choked out.
“Liar,” she whispered, her voice dropping into that dangerous, teasing register. She pulled her hands back, and Zuko felt that delicious pressure leave his body the moment her palms slapped her waist.
She straightened up, but she didn’t move away from the head of the bed. She just looked down at him, dominant and knowing, her smile turning into something much more predatory.
“I think the palace is the problem,” she said, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Too much stress on your nervous system. I think we need to go to Ember Island. Just the two of us. To 'unwind' and get you to bring back your 'inner flame'."
She reached out, cupping both sides of his face and forcing him to look her squarely in the eye. Her face was only inches from his, so close he could smell her sweet breath and feel the heat radiating off her skin.
"What do you think?"
Zuko gave a pathetic, shaky nod, knowing he would dismantle his entire empire if she only asked while looking at him with that devastating intensity.
“Good,” she said, her eyes lingering on his mouth one last time before she patted his cheek. “I’ll pack. You just figure out how to tell your Uncle you’re taking medical leave.”
---
Zuko found his uncle in the small garden pavilion, looking entirely too peaceful and not even aware that his nephew was currently vibrating out of his goddamn skin. Iroh was carefully pouring a steaming cup of tea, the smell of the jasmine leaves circling in the air. That smell had usually calmed Zuko down.
Today, it just felt like another thing that was too hot.
"Uncle," Zuko started, standing as stiff as a training dummy. "Katara has... expressed concern about my inability to firebend."
Iroh didn't even look up from his tea. "Has she? She is a very dedicated healer. She's very... thorough." He raised his eyebrow slightly.
Zuko felt a flush creep up his neck. Thorough was a massive understatement. He could still feel the phantom pressure of her fingers on his nipples from the healing room.
"Yeah. She thinks the palace atmosphere is—it’s bad for whatever is stopping my bending. Too much stress on my nervous system, most likely. So she’s recommended I take some medical leave."
Iroh took a slow, agonizingly loud sip of tea. "Medical leave? To the colonies? Or perhaps Ba Sing Se?"
"We'll be leaving for Ember Island," Zuko blurted out. "The humidity is good for my lungs. And the... the saltwater. It’s a very specific healing regimen she’s got planned."
Iroh finally looked up, his eyes twinkling with that infuriating brand of ancient wisdom that made Zuko want to jump off a balcony.
"Ember Island. Just the two of you? It is quite a large house for only two people. Perhaps I should come along to ensure you don't overexert yourself with all that... recovery."
"No!" Zuko snapped, then immediately lowered his voice. "No. She was very clear. Very few, minimal distractions. It’s strictly professional, Uncle. She’s my friend and my main healer. That’s it."
Iroh hummed, a low, skeptical sound. "Of course. A friend. It is a very noble thing, to spend so much time alone with a friend in such a romantic—I mean, restorative—location."
"Old man, if you don't quit it!" Zuko hissed, leaning over the table, his face turning a dangerous shade of red. "She is just a friend! There is nothing going on! We are simply focused on—"
"Zuko? You coming or what?"
Zuko turned around, the defense dying in his throat like a strangled bird.
Katara was standing in the archway of the pavilion. She wasn’t wearing her heavy Water Tribe blues anymore. She was dressed for the Ember Island heat—Fire Nation style. It was a wrap-around top of thin, almost-translucent red silk that left her shoulders and midriff completely bare, showing off every curve of her waist. The low-slung skirts swished around her ankles with every move she made, and the gold jewelry at her wrists caught the sun, making her look less like a healer and more like a goddess.
Zuko’s jaw hit the floor. His brain, which had been trying so hard to recite the "Just Friends" monologue, friend completely.
"You're... you're wearing red," Zuko managed to squeak.
"It's the local style, right?" Katara said, stepping into the pavilion. She looked him up and down, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips as she noticed his eyes wandering toward the dip of her waist. "Unless you think it’s too much?"
Zuko didn't even reply back. He was too busy trying to remember how to breathe normal.
Iroh, meanwhile, was just calmly pouring another cup of tea. "A very efficient outfit for healing, Katara. I imagine the skin-to-air contact really helps... opening things up."
Katara’s smirk widened. "Exactly, Uncle! You understand perfectly!"
Zuko finally found his voice, though it was about three octaves higher than usual. "We’re leaving. Now. The boat is... waiting. Bye, Uncle!"
He grabbed Katara’s arm and, while trying very hard not to notice how soft her bare skin felt, practically dragged her toward the docks.
Behind them, Iroh’s voice floated through the garden, light and entirely too amused.
"Have a productive 'healing session', nephew! Try not to let your honor get in the way of the treatment!"