A/N: This story is a companion piece to "Ink", but it can be read as a stand-alone piece. It takes place immediately after Mulan returns from the tattoo parlor, but before she leaves the capital.

Captain Li Shang did not feel much cause for celebration. The loud music and the sweaty pull of the crowd rubbed him the wrong way, their eyes resting upon him without seeing his shame, until Shang's anger bubbled to the surface, and with it the irrational desire to cut down every one of them. He reached to take comfort from hilt of his sword, but his hand met only air. Their blindness enraged him - they saw only the victory, never the cost. The war was over. China had prevailed. But Shang had come undone.

This was how Shang came to be in the underbelly of the Imperial City, in a dingy tavern that stank of stale smoke and unwashed men. It would be bad manners to come into such a place armed, but Shang would bet his commission that every boot in here concealed a weapon. Boisterous laughter grated upon his ears, but not loudly enough to drown out the anguish inside his head. It was a far cry from the burnished bronze and polished stone of the palace. There Shang might have dined upon succulent duck or pheasant in a savory sauce, accompanied by a crisp rice wine, light and sweet on his tongue. Instead he was here, downing poor-quality báijiǔ on an empty belly and wishing things were different.

It was not a place one would expect to find a hero of China, but right now the last thing Shang felt like was a hero.

He had chosen this particular establishment for its distance from the central palace - far enough that he went unrecognized but the clientele still recognized him as a man who could handle himself and left him alone. A row of tiny cups stood lined up before him, upside down and empty on the table.

The wild festivities outside had carried on long into the early hours of the morning, as patrons stumbled in and out of the bar to refresh themselves, but Shang hunched over his table, ignoring them all, comfortably numb. He called for another by holding up two fingers. As his drink arrived, so did a young woman in a blue ruqun, a rose-colored sash tied around her waist. She sat down across from him. Shang groaned, staring into the full tumbler before him. Was this his seventh? Eighth?

"I appreciate the offer, madam, but I am not looking for the sort of company you're offering tonight." Were his words slurred? Shang couldn't tell.

The woman snorted, and Shang raised his head. His eyes widened. "Mulan! What are you doing here?"

Mulan snaked her hand across the table to take the shot from in front of him and tossed it back with ease. Shang was again struck by just how little he truly knew about this remarkable woman. "I thought you could use some company, but if I'm offering 'the wrong sort,' I can leave."

"No! I mean, no, no, I thought you were - but it doesn't matter now," Shang said.

"A jìnǚ?" Mulan said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, they certainly are in high demand tonight." Alcohol and unease roiled in Shang's stomach. Mulan shouldn't have come - this wasn't a place for an honorable woman.

"I'd like it if you stayed," Shang said instead.

Mulan glanced around the bar, her gaze detached. "This isn't exactly high society. What are you doing here?"

"I'm celebrating," he said darkly.

"Of course you are. Which is why you're holed up in this dump rather than taking another walk of victory with the troops."

"You're not out there," Shang said pointedly.

Mulan laughed, far more naturally than Ping ever had, but there was a cynical edge to it that gave Shang pause. "Oh, no one misses a woman."

Shang frowned. Had he done this to her? He wondered what she had been like before the war.

"So tell me: why are you in here pickling your insides?"

Maybe it was the báijiǔ, or maybe it was just the effect Mulan had upon him - even as Ping, Shang had always felt a strange hitch in his chest, a stutter in his soul, whenever he looked at her. Ping had been a puzzle Shang could never figure out. The revelation of Mulan's true identity had loosened up the pieces, but they were still scattered and out of place. In any case, his muddled mind thought if anyone might understand him, it was she.

"Before my father left for the Tung Shao Pass, he promoted me to captain. Do you know what his last words to me were?"

Mulan shrugged.

"He said we would toast our victory in the Imperial City. He said, 'Good luck, Captain.'" Shang made a noise of disgust. "I was blinded by naïveté and hubris. What a fool I was." He waved a hand in front of him in a grandiose gesture. "'Captain Li Shang. Leader of China's finest troops. No, the greatest troops of all time!' I was like a little boy playing war."

"You have never been expected to be perfect, Captain," Mulan said. "The only thing expected of you is to make your mistakes with honor."

Shang couldn't look at her. He no longer believed his actions towards her in the mountains had been honorable, and he was too much of a coward to see his own uncertainty reflected in her eyes. He concentrated instead on the tiny cup dangling from his fingertips. "I thought I would make history with my command."

"You did."

"My men made history, not me," he protested. "And you, of course. We would have failed without you."

Mulan smiled. "The man you think you are would never have given his soldiers all the credit. Your father must have seen that in you."

Shang stared at her, and Mulan seemed to think she had said too much.

"Forgive me - I did not know him. I do not pretend to."

"No, no," Shang said, placing his hand over hers on the table. Mulan stiffened, but didn't pull away. "You're right, of course."

Mulan bowed her head, her hair falling forward to shadow her face. Shang noticed a black smudge on the back of her neck, a sharp contrast against her skin. Before he could make out what it was, she raised her head and drew her hands back to settle in her lap.

Shang cleared his throat. "I, uh, never thanked you for the respects you paid my father in the pass. I saw your prayer, and for that I am grateful."

"It was the least I could do." Mulan raised her cup. "To General Li and the rest of the fallen. May their sacrifice never be forgotten."

They clinked their cups and downed the bitter liquid.

"Mulan?"

"Sir?"

"What you said before, about making mistakes with honor?" Shang began, his heart beating faster. "I owe you an apology for the way I treated you in the mountains."

Mulan simply waited, as if she thought he had more to say. Shang wasn't quite sure what else she was expecting. "Can you forgive me?"

"My father says forgiveness is a journey, Captain," Mulan said slowly. "I never really understood what he meant before, but . . . now I think I do." She sighed and looked away, deep in thought. "I think the journey has already begun, but I can't forgive you. Not yet."

Shang lowered his eyes to hide his disappointment. "I understand."

A long silence hung between them, broken by a bawdy joke at a neighboring table, followed by raucous laughter.

"I should go," Mulan said finally, standing up. "Sir, for what it's worth . . ." She trailed off.

"Hm?"

"When I said I thought you were a great captain, back at the camp . . . I meant it." She paused. "Good luck, Captain." He watched her slip out the door like a shadow.

Shang's heart was lighter than it had been in weeks when he himself stepped out into the night.

Her parting words meant more than she could know. They gave him hope that she saw something in him worth forgiving.

báijiǔ - a strong distilled white spirit
ruqun - a top garment with a separate lower garment or skirt, informal clothing primarily worn by women during the Han dynasty
jìnǚ - prostitute, literally "female performer". Often skilled in music, dance, conversation, and other performing arts, not necessarily carrying a sexual connotation