Originally prompted on the ficbending kink meme, and written because torturing Tarrlok is fun for the whole family. This is technically TarrlokxOC I guess, but since romance isn't a central focus in this story, references to the woman will be kept to a minimum. This is all about tormenting Tarrlok with offspring, so no pairings for the time being. (Unless I can think of some extremely compelling reason to weasel some Korrlok in.)

Thicker than Water

Chapter 1: Blame

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Councilmen Tarrlok sat in his office, and tried desperately not to think. He'd never been much good at that - his mind was always turning and stewing, schemes and stratagems simmering beneath simple guile and a practiced smile. It had served him well in the past, but now, more than anything, he wanted it all to stop. To turn his mind off, and sleep. To forget that today had ever happened.

Midnight had come and gone hours ago, leaving him alone with his thoughts - not a safe place right now. But try as he might, he couldn't stop the conversation from looping over and over, like his own personal, self-inflicted torture. The accusations crawled under his skin, worming their way into old wounds until they bled anew with fresh guilt and frustration.

"…you have a responsibility…"

"…insisted that he stay with you…"

"…never asked you for a single yuan…"

"…a better life in Republic City…"

"Sir?"

A court attendant stood in his doorway, chin tucked into the collar of his shirt, as if he were trying to shrink into nothing. A simpering, timid young man from Ba Sing Se University he'd seen skirting around the halls and meeting room with rapt curiosity. He bore the same naive idealism Tarrlok had shared when he entered the business of politics, shed long ago in favor of practicality. He'd found an immediate dislike for the boy.

"What is it?" His voice sounded weak. Drained. The attendant seemed to pick up on his mood, hunching even further into himself.

"Well, it's just… it's nearly two in the morning sir, and we need to lock up the building… unless of course, you're still working…I can talk to security and ask them to-"

"No," he cut the boy off with a wave of the hand. His voice was grating, and it didn't help the headache building between his eyes. "I'm leaving. Give me a moment to finish."

"O-of course," the boy tipped forward in a awkward bow before shuffling off just a bit too quickly. Tarrlok paid him no mind - he had too much on his own right now.

He rose out of his chair in a series of jerky, wooden movements, a marionette wielded with broken strings. His wrists were horribly sore from writing, but he ignored the stiffness and gathered the notes into a rough pile, filing them away. They were meticulously precise and wide in their scope, but it still felt insufficient for the coming weeks. Maniitok had still insisted that they speak again in person, and he was in no mood to refuse. He needed all the help he could get. Dates, contact information, and countless other details tossed and turned in his head until his mind was a soup of numbers and nonsense. There was too much to do; too much to plan. Just… too much.

He really was tired.

Somewhere in his pocket was a crumpled note. It'd arrive today, preceding the phone call, but he fancied he'd already memorized every word on that page. Twice. He would have burned it out of spite or sheer frustration, but instead he found himself tracing the groves in the paper as he remembered the hands that wrote it. How long had it been? Six years? It felt like so much longer, though sometimes, it felt like no time at all. He barely thought of Sura anymore - it was easier that way. She reminded him too much of home. He supposed he had no choice but to remember her now.

He took the note from his pocket and smoothed it on his desk with measured deliberateness, as if it were a length of fine silk. The writing was messy and small - exactly as he had remembered it - and for just a moment he let himself linger on just the strokes and shapes of the characters rather than the meaning behind them. He let himself reminisce on cold nights and warm furs, shouting matches and make-up sex, sea prunes and turtle-seal jerky. On raucous laughter and cheeky grins and the few times he'd truly felt happy since his brother's disappearance. He let himself remember her, for just a little bit.

The moment passed, and the reality of his situation hit him once more like a speeding Satomobile. He wanted to break something. He was filled with the childish urge to smash the phone; to tear up the letter, as if it would send today away, and bring a simpler (and he'd never used the word "simple" in the context of politics before) tomorrow. Tarrlok distantly remembered his father telling him that anger was better than uncertainty, but he knew now that he was wrong. This… directionlessness, this all consuming rage was so, so much worse than simple irresolution.

He needed to blame someone, anyone, but he found his options rather limited. He so desperately wanted to hate Sura for everything, but his heart just wasn't in the attack. Besides, there was nothing to gain from condemning the dead. Maniitok deserved no share of his ire either; he was just the messenger, and an unwilling one at that. Sura's father had never liked him much, and now he had a good reason.

After wrestling with the issue for a few moments longer, he settled on blaming Yakone. If his father hadn't been so weak, so driven by revenge, he wouldn't have died in despair once Noatak fled. Then Tarrlok wouldn't have left for the Northern Capital to study. He would have never met Sura, and then this never would have happened. His reasoning was a stretch by any measure of the word, but it gave him just a modicum of comfort. Slowly, he felt the anger fade until it was just a dull ache in the back of his heart.

He found himself tracing the note again, fingers running up and down the lines as he felt, more than read the letter. He could feel the plea, the desperation in every stroke Sura had made, but that didn't make the news any easier to bear. Absentmindedly, his thumb settled on a sentence. He knew what it said - he could tell from the deep gouges, the tension that had gone into writing the words. But if writing them had been difficult for Sura, then reading them once more was almost unbearable for him. And yet his eyes trailed down the page, and for the thousandth time that night, he read the three little words that shattered his world.

You're a father.