As evening drew over the weary band of travellers, Zuko volunteered to make camp while Aang, Toph, and Sokka went foraging for food. Katara stayed behind as well - to keep an eye on him, Zuko suspected, but it was no more than he expected; to say he felt at home with his new companions would have been a gross exaggeration.
It was the first time they had been alone since they were prisoners together in Ba Sing Se, and Katara was radiating resentment. She spoke to him only to give curt orders. For his part, Zuko felt a growing annoyance at this treatment; hadn't he turned his back on his father and his entire nation in order to help them? If that didn't earn this girl's forgiveness, he didn't know what could. He set up a shelter, and did his best to stay out of her way.
But when it came time to light the fire, and Katara's efforts with flint and steel proved unsuccessful, Zuko stepped forward.
"Here," he said easily, reaching out: with a flick of his open hand, the wood burst into flames.
Katara whirled on him, the weight of her glare forcing him back a step. "A little warning next time," she snapped. "You could have burned me. The last thing I want is a face like yours."
Automatically, Zuko turned the scarred side of his face away from her. "I'm sorry," he said, sullen. "I guess I can understand how you feel." He reached up to feel the rough skin, adding, "But I'm glad you didn't use the spirit water to heal it."
"Well I'm glad I didn't - " she shot back, stopping when his words sank in.
"This scar will always remind me why I chose to join the Avatar, instead of being the prince my father wanted. It will help me remember the decisions I made in the past and how I came to regret them." He turned away from her completely. "But I guess if I didn't have it, you'd be happy to remind me of my mistakes every day."
To his surprise, Katara said nothing. Zuko settled himself at the base of a tree, laying his swords across his lap as he dug a whetstone from his pack. Katara set a large clay pot over the fire, and began to draw water from the nearby stream. Surreptitiously, Zuko watched her; the waterbending movements were graceful, natural, like the movement of branches in the wind. He considered the difference between their elements; fire possessed much more immediate danger. New firebenders often burned themselves, and each other. The most harm he could imagine coming to a young waterbender was an unexpected soaking.
But he had seen Katara in battle, and knew she was far from harmless. Sometimes the looks she gave him called to mind the deadly water-whips she often fought with.
Katara looked up from the water she was heating, and caught him staring. Zuko resumed sharpening his sword with a vengeance, the familiar rasp of steel and stone easing his mind. He became so focused on his work that he didn't see her approach, and was startled into stillness when her hand was suddenly laid on his arm.
It was a peasant's hand, sun-browned skin and worn fingernails; but she was gentle, and he remembered vividly how soothing her touch had been on his wounded face. He felt lightheaded, realizing how badly he wanted to feel that touch again.
But she withdrew her hand, forcing his eyes to meet hers.
"Zuko," she began, then stopped, searching for words. "It's hard for me to understand you ... How you could have turned on Aang again, after ... The things we said ..."
Zuko looked away, testing the edge of his sword with his finger. "That's because everything has always been very simple for you," he replied roughly. "Right and wrong is as easy as 'us' and 'them.' My father may be the Firelord, but he's still my father, and he never gave out anything that wasn't hard-earned, including love. If the person that meant everything to you only thought of you as a weakling and a coward, don't you think you'd do desperate things to prove them wrong?"
He looked up again, glaring through his hair. "Maybe we're too different, and you'll never be able to see why I did the things I did; but I can't take them back, and I can't make them right, unless you give me a chance."
She met his gaze solemn-faced, silent. Then she rested her hand on his cheek, her palm as cool and comforting as a healer's balm. The blood rushed to Zuko's head, memory tangling his emotions.
"We are very different," Katara agreed softly. "But we have at least two things in common."
He knew what the first was; neither of them wanted to touch that private pain again just yet. "What's the other?" he asked, slightly hoarse.
"We both want to end this war, and will stop at nothing to do it."
"Nothing?" he echoed. "Not even trusting in someone who betrayed you?"
She took a breath. "I don't see him in you anymore."
He felt dizzy, anxious, buoyant. He covered her hand with his own, reluctant to lose the feel of her skin on his. Katara lowered her eyes, but didn't pull away, and the two of them sat in silence, enjoying each other's closeness and the strangeness of the moment.
There was a sudden loud hiss as the pot of water boiled over onto the fire. The pair separated hastily, almost guiltily, even as the ring of distant voices announced the return of their friends.
That night when Zuko slept, he dreamed that the fire he made streamed from his hands like water, and instead of burning, it made him whole again.