Nobody can know, so Asami suffers alone. Well, Amon is there, but she prefers to pretend otherwise.
This is his doing, though he doesn't look at her with satisfaction, doesn't smile maliciously as he tells her what he's about to do. She can't run, can't stop him. Asami is used to being able to fight back, but she's stuck in his living quarters, and his bedroom is stark and uninviting. Yet it's been her place of residence (she refuses to call it "home" and remembers that he took her home away from her) for half a year. She wonders if she'll be able to look at her father when he sees her and tells her that he hopes Amon has shown her the truth of things, as he says cheerfully that he hopes she's not as obdurate as she was last time.
They are together in his bedroom, which is simple, composed of browns and reds. Colors unfitting for a man who grew up swathed in blues and purples, grays and whites. Asami peers at him and she can't believe those stories he told her as he held her, limp and fatigued, against his chest in their—no, no, his, his bed with its linen sheets reeking of sweat and musk. She can't recall what her perfume smelled like. It was cherry-something, yet she can't conjure any sort of fragment of it. All she smells like is him.
Then, Amon asks her if she consents. Mechanical, waiting for her answer.
Standing a few feet from him, Asami nods.
His voice is blunt as he looks to her stomach, and he tells her that it will hurt.
A moment later, she cries out. The pain is like her cycle. At first. He clasps her shoulders, and she runs to the bathroom.
Amon isn't wearing his mask. His hair is oily, and he has some stubble along his chin.
He gives her fresh drinking water as she moans and convulses on the bed, the pain stabbing and too much. Asami bites the inside of her cheek, tasting blood. Amon says emptily that he will heal her, make sure "it" clears out properly. It was a mess.
He won't let her die, unfortunately. Why, so he can still have a toy to play his mind games on?
The worst is over; the worst had been sitting on the commode while blood and—and the chunks of tissue—
The city is almost his, yet he hasn't killed her. Now she's recovering from a miscarriage he induced. She doesn't resent him as much as she should. It's sick, sick and awful. Asami Sato is supposed to be strong, but she isn't ready to be a mother, much less a mother to Amon's child. How much love would she reserve for a child she had in captivity, a child she never asked for?
If Asami loved her baby with all of her heart, what would it be like to have Amon as a father? Could she bring that fate upon anyone? The stories he's told her about his past—outlandish, horrific tales.
No. It is for the best.
She hasn't seriously considered ending her life. She's too young, has too much to do. Asami won't let herself be another casualty, won't put the airbenders and Pema in danger.
It's been six months since Amon captured her. Once, she was eating this soft bread. Asami has decorum, chews slowly, takes tiny bites. But it caused the crumbs to fall everywhere, and he smirked. She turned away, face flushed. It was too familiar of a gesture.
He brushes her hair, holds it when she can't hold food down. It hurts. Oh spirits, it hurts.
"My mother once had a miscarriage," he starts, "and she—"
"Please, don't," Asami says weakly, her throat constricting, the bitter tang of morning breath on her tongue.
She won't cry. She won't cry.
Asami thinks of her mother when she's in the dingy tub, pulls at what's left of her hair that she cut. Every evening, he bathes and dresses her. Typically, Asami wouldn't give him that satisfaction. People are counting on her, but he will leave some things be. However, she relishes in how he almost acts as if he's sorry.
In reality, Asami knows that Amon won't let Hiroshi learn that his daughter died under his care. Yet any short breaks in the sordid power dynamic between them are nice. Asami never feels refreshed or clean, but sometimes she can bear waiting this out until the right moment.
Her mother stood and faced death. Even though she would almost certainly be killed by the firebender, she distracted him to ensure that her daughter would escape harm's way.
She leans her cheek into Amon's palm, surprised at its warmth.
The sound of water running calms her, and she can almost pretend that the past six months haven't happened.
She's alone, but they are both alone together. Asami hopes that she hasn't broken her promise to herself, that the wetness on his hands, on her cheeks, is the bath water. Not tears.