Tarrlok can't say that he appreciates the spring. Though he prefers the hotter seasons to the brittle leaves and snow, he's not grateful for the bugs. Also, the warm weather is not kind to those with long, thick hair.
The garden is well-kept and no longer potted with holes, though the heavy polar bear-dog will probably seek the coolness of the ground soon. So the cycle would begin again: he'll fuss; Korra will cross her arms and laugh at his misery.
His mother told him that children who potty train early are more reserved and organized. While Tarrlok considers himself an educated, sophisticated man, he can't bring himself to rebuke all of the commonly-passed words of knowledge from his village.
That being said, Arja has these traits, though she was a late bloomer in the housebreaking regard. She's an exception; he's encountered plenty of those. As a formerly timid child, he fears that his daughter will be encased within an insurmountable shell.
When he tried to get her to sit on the toilet, she would inform him matter-of-factly, "I don't want to." Luckily, they climbed that hurdle. "Doggyyyyyy!" Yet it's as if his daughter is affected by the seasons. Waterbenders rise with the moon and firebenders rise with the sun, but Arja lights up when the city blooms again.
"No, careful honey. It'll knock you down."
"Naga isn't an 'it'," Korra retorts, patting her polar bear-dog's side, "and she won't hurt her."
She bristles at the smug curl of his lips, the sun hot on her back. "Is that so? That thing could kill a man."
Korra shrugs. "Well, there was this one time where she broke through a window and growled at someone." Without another word, she helps Arja climb the beast. Tarrlok, often hovering at a distance when it comes to Naga, steps forward reluctantly. This family—his family—will be the death of him.
"Look daddy, lookit the doggy! Vroooom." Arja sputters like an engine, gives her father a gap-toothed smile. Korra claps and laughs.
Tarrlok supposes that he can detect the legitimacy behind his mother's wisdom when he considers how disorganized Arja is. Even with her reticence, she's just as messy as her mother.
He tries to be there, but often Arja goes with her mother on whatever (safe) errands she has. While Korra has finally produced some progress in her airbending, she still meditates and trains at the air temple. Once, she complained with a dramatic pout that Arja is better at finding peace within herself than her mother is. (Or perhaps that's boredom.)
When he's catching up on his news in The Republic City Sun, a rag of a newspaper he formerly had in his figurative pocket, Arja comes into the living room, dragging her feet. But that's not all she drags in.
"Daddy, can I keep it?" She holds up what looks like it's supposed to be canine. Its pelt is overgrown, its eyes bugging out, it's white lashes matted with dirty hair. It's absolutely repulsive.
The newspaper rests on the table in front of the couch. "Where did you get that?" The room is full of animal mounts. Though he finds them too close to his old home and Korra jokes about how they'd hurt Naga's feelings (to which he has no qualms), he has long sat on the bed as Korra dwelled with one leg hanging out of their bedroom window. So close, yet more than an ocean away.
When her homesickness overwhelms her, when she misses her parents and Katara and even one of those dumb White Lotus guards. She's too young to be so wishful.
"I found it outside. I'll wash it and feed it, I promiseI promiseIpromise!"
"It's probably diseased."
"Don't say that!" Arja protests, holding it like it's a sack of mangoes.
He knows fully well that she'll go and ask Korra if he denies her. He wants her to have a real childhood, unlike her parents. While it isn't advised that a child grows up with everything given to them, Arja is such a quiet child. Not as boisterous as he expected. Tarrlok thought he'd get a terror-what he imagined Korra was like when she was little.
Once again, he needs to remember that children are not duplicates of their parents.
Hesitantly, Tarrlok says, "We'll see."
"Thank you!" She sets the dog down and lunges toward him, wrapping her arms around his neck and nuzzling his cheek. Thinking about his daughter makes his stomach plummet when he considers how he manipulated Korra, what he's done in the past. No, he wasn't as bad as Yakone then. Nothing he did was illegal or meant to ruin lives. Directly.
Here, Yakone would say that the puppy is nothing but a blood sack. He'd-Tarrlok doesn't even want to entrench himself in those memories again.
"You'll have to take care of it." Korra will never let him hear the end of this. He is less fortunate when Arja moves away and soon exposes him to the fervent licking of the filthy mongrel just after he's groomed himself.
He tries to see himself in her, though there's not a trace of his blood coursing through Arja. He supposes anything different would be an insult to her own blood, to her own potential.
"You are such a pushover, 'Councilman'!" Korra playfully shoves him, and he falls back onto the couch. Tarrlok always embraces this sadness when thinking of the lonely little girl stuck behind compound walls, but Korra never sees it that way. Better than being in an ice block for a century, right?
Korra plops down beside him. When Arja goes to sleep, their home is often uneventful. They're always busy, almost always apart. Tarrlok find that he enjoys not being at each other's throats.
Originally, the lack of (many) arguments stemmed from not wanting to agitate her when she was with child and trying to appear like they were a couple. But, despite her frustrating obdurance, he likes the distractions. Tarrlok likes sharing myths and stories about the differences between their tribes, though there are gaps in his verbal recollections.
The days aren't without their struggles. She rebukes any attempts to change her demeanor. It's not that he wants her to be a different person, but she's honest to the point of being naive. In politics, one needs to weigh their words carefully. She wears her heart proudly; he hides his in distaste. Of course, Korra will attest that he's just too accustomed to being a controlling, unctuous weasel-snake. (Her own terminology is far less kind.)
Just then, he sets an arm across her shoulders. She doesn't stop him.
