White Knight
1.

'Try not to make a home out of her––ah, what I mean is: a home always stays in one place. With her, it's easy to get homesick.'

A heart, with a shaky foundation. Toppled rooftops. Sometimes a door which isn't always open. Mako wouldn't ever admit to a stranger that he had allowed the Avatar to make him feel this way. To be entrenched in this little abode he was so reluctant to pull back from.

Nothing is ever fixed.

'I know what's in store for me.'

The way he smiles expresses everything but confidence. Reaching out, he nearly takes her hand, but quickly reconsiders, allowing his hand to drop to his side. Perhaps he has underestimated her too many times, especially now. Both she and the Avatar have been absent for over a fortnight, and he hasn't yet entertained what had occurred between them.

Maybe she does know. Maybe she does know how erratic and consuming and wonderful it is to fall in love with the Avatar. Maybe she endures much deeper feelings for her than he ever had. Still, he would hate himself if Asami committed to the same mistake he did.

That's the thing about the Avatar: they're devoted––soul and body.

Sometimes never to an actual person.

'Hey.' So, she initiates the affection. Grabs his hand and squeezes. 'Don't worry about me––or her. You should know how capable we are by now.'

'Yeah.' But capability has got nothing to do with it. 'Anyway. How is she?'

Externally, she's perfect. A recovering warrior, and fiercely stubborn at that. What's most impressive is the amount of damage she's able to hide. Because everything––everything––remains trapped in a bottle, and the lid is so close to bursting. And it's all ready to pour. Like the sea, like waves; huge and gigantic and furious.

There are just some things that Korra won't discuss.

It's not necessarily that she's shy. Asami has definitely noticed the slight insecurities which occasionally show, but timidness is not the concern.

Trust is the issue here.

Because while she may be able to manipulate water, the earth, air and fire, that is almost all she can do. Opening up, expressing feelings; having the ability to turn to one's partner and talk––that's another skill entirely.

That's another kind of bravery.

Korra doesn't talk about what keeps her up at night. What triggers the nightmares, and jolts her awake, screaming. What spoils her appetite so she can't eat for days, and prefers the seclusion. Prefers meditation and being alone. And Korra hates meditating. But, sometimes, it's the only comfortable treatment she can find.

One which doesn't push her boundaries.

Then, there's Asami. Who is patient, who is observant, and who Korra really needs.

'Better.'

When they kissed, neither knew what to expect. Whether they'd kiss, and feel nothing after all. Or, if they'd kiss, and the addiction would burn. Ignite them to the point of ripping away each other's clothes, and satisfying a desire they've harboured for so long.

Neither of those scenarios happened.

It was soft. And unplanned. Sort of helpless, the way Korra kissed her. Asami can safely assume Korra has kissed boys before. She has one of them sitting before her. Whether or not she's kissed a girl before, she's not sure, but that wasn't the cause for Korra's hesitance. If anything, the two have never been more certain and secure in their own feelings for each other.

But when she kissed Mako, that was a while ago. Irrelevant, considering what happened afterwards.

They kiss. They cuddle. They lie together, cuddling, and it's usually silent and warm and wonderful. They don't demand anything from the other. And it's utterly mutual. The kind of love Asami would have once dreamed about as a little girl, studying her father's mechanical instruments. Wandering about this someone.

Asami can feel her punctured flesh beneath her clothes. The scars which litter her cheeks, and when she kisses her lips––sometimes chapped, sometimes cold––she wishes to nurse her back to health. Wishes to banish whatever haunts her mind. Give her the sort of happiness she's been searching for, and let her take it. All of it.

This isn't a teenage frenzy.

This is more. This is complex, and maddening, and love.

And they're not teenagers anymore.

The Avatar can never be a home. Never be that someone to return to. The Avatar is someone who vanishes, and reappears. A distracted creature, only partially in touch with the material world, whereas the rest of him or her is stranded elsewhere. Learning from ghosts, creating allies with spirits which mere mortals cannot fathom.

The Avatar is devastatingly easy to love.

An infant cries out, but the forests return no response.

The infant has cried for minutes, hours, days. Years. But time has no place here; not somewhere where there are no limits, no restrictions for the mind to absorb all the colour and beauty which overwhelms the senses.

She is a small thing, and her balance is off. The infant trips. Slips over. Falls on her stomach, and it hurts. It makes her cry, shudder, and call for her mother. Her father. But there's never an answer, never anybody to reach for. So, she wanders further into the forest. And the further she walks, darker it becomes. As if all the light has been squeezed from this bizarre planet; all the happiness and joy which once walked the earth––gone.

It's the trees. They block out the sunlight, and suddenly the trees are terrifying.

Panic sweeps through her, and she turns on her heel, running. But she has awful balance, and she's only just learnt how to walk. So she falls. She falls again. She falls once more, and starts to feel dizzy. She feels abused and wounded. Feels as if the world is truly unfair; and she has done nothing wrong, so all she can do is cry.

Yet everywhere she looks, it's dark. There's nothing.

It's the most terrifying picture. This picture of nothing. Of absence. Of loss.

Being alone.

So, the infant gives up. Confused, on the verge of tears, she sits and ponders over her hopeless situation. But there isn't a thing she can do to help herself. Her parents are nowhere to be seen, and there isn't anybody in sight. The infant has been abandoned. Thrown out. Left to decay and rot with the roots. Disappear into the earth.

It is a lot like a blanket. The darkness, smothering her tiny body, and clinging on.

Suffocating.

What frustrates the Avatar is that it's not even midnight yet. But her dream has forced her out of the bed, and she's wide awake. That tiny infant is painted in her mind, adorable and helpless and so very familiar. How taunting that her mind pictures her younger self. Tiny, fragile and such easy prey. But does it make a difference?

At her age now, or as a baby, does it make a difference?

Because she would run either way.

An uninvited––yet welcome––presence disturbs the atmosphere. Korra turns, startled, and it's the only person she would rather meet.

'I heard you wake up.'

I heard you scream. I heard you flee.

In an attempt to hide the embarrassment spreading across her cheeks, Korra looks away. Leans across the bannister again, enjoying the view of Republic City. There's always something odd about it at night; as if it were another dimension altogether.

She misses the South Pole. That's a certain.

An apology is about to escape, but she stops herself. 'I like it out here––come, look.' When Asami comes over to join her, she endures a rush of warmth. The sweet, delicate perfume she wears. How gentle her presence can be. The nightmares, the monsters which creep beneath the floorboards––they aren't so scary when Asami is nearby.

For Korra's sake, Asami doesn't mention the cause of Korra being awake. But the uncertainty is there, wedged between them, and Korra knows she can't hide it all for long. Not when the person she's with is this caring.

This loving.

'Didn't wake you, did I?'

Asami smiles. Leans into her. 'It's okay. I'm a light sleeper.' Losing interest with the view, she considers what she wants to say. What she wants to confess. Korra feels so small beside her, and she wants nothing more than to cuddle her tight. Kiss her until her lips are sore, and she's so dazed from the affection, she has no choice but to faint in euphoria.

It would be a dream, that. Having Korra all to herself. Where no one can disturb them; not even the little things which keep them awake.

But Asami is willing to take the next step.

'You can stay with me tonight? Would that help?'

'I'd probably keep you awake,' Korra shrugs. 'I tend to talk in my sleep.'

'… but you'd sleep?'

'Maybe. I dunno. W––Why?'

Asami kisses her cheek. Korra looks at her, eyes wide with curiosity. Sometimes, she is quite like a child. Hungry for knowledge, and unhappy when things aren't entirely clear. Straightening slightly, Asami tucks a strand of hair behind Korra's ear, trails her fingers across her cheek. 'I had a friend who used to have bad dreams, too.'

Not exactly a friend. They had shared a bed more than once, and not for the platonic purpose. But that's not Asami's point––

'I'd help her. Help her sleep. Don't be scared by a little distraction, Korra.'

Korra frowns. 'What d'you mean?'

Wow. Asami laughs slightly, finding Korra's ignorance endearing. 'You know, for somebody considered so wise, I can't believe this is escaping you.'

'Huh?' Korra grins nervously. 'You've lost me.'

Perhaps blunt honesty is the only way to send the message. Asami kisses her, pulling at Korra's collar. This kiss isn't soft, but rough. A sense of urgency behind it. She grips onto Korra and kisses her with such want, the young Avatar is taken by pleasant surprise. When they break apart, Korra shudders at the sensation of Asami's breath passing her cheek.

A distraction. Just to ease the pain a little, rid of the horrors which dominate her thoughts.

To be pulled away from her duties as an Avatar, and to focus entirely on something physical––Korra has never really explored that area before. Of course, she would be lying if she denied Asami excited her. Excited her in ways nobody else has done. But committing herself to that? It's another territory completely; something new and waiting to be experienced.

'Let me help you.'

Korra loves her for trying. Loves her for being so generous, and a part of her wants to. Really wants Asami to help. Maybe it is timidness. Insecurity. Maybe it's more than that. She exhales, recovered from their brief, heated exchange.

Reaches for Asami's hands on her collar, holding them.

To tell all of it, everything––it would be simple.

Korra kisses the corner of her mouth, and doesn't say a word. They could try, and try, and try––step into different boundaries of their relationship––do what they both want, but since everything, nothing has ever been more complicated.

This time, when Korra walks away, it's not a sign of rejection. And Asami doesn't take her withdrawal to heart. Because while she isn't allowed to picture the young Avatar as a home, a place she knows is certain and fulfilling, that doesn't negate her feelings for her.

Patience has never been Korra's strongest suit, but if that's what it takes, Asami will give her all the patience she has.