He would never know what drew him to her, but two things would always stay with him: Her name, and her lullaby.

A continuation of Drunk, and, like Drunk, there be some adult language and some adult themes lurking ahead.

Inspired by Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, by John le Carre.


Lullaby

THE FIRST TIME ZUKO SAW HER, IT WAS COMPLETELY BY ACCIDENT. Well, maybe not an accident, per se, it wasn't like he was there by chance, but, then again, he hadn't assumed his little perch to watch her, had he? No, he was there to take a look at the man who seemed to be going around calling himself Jet, for all that Zuko was willing to bet a year's salary that that wasn't the man's real name. Isn't even a good cover name, Zuko couldn't help but think with a sneer of disdain as he took a sip from his thermos and lit another cigarette. The sneer turned into a grimace as the tea worked its way through his system. He'd brought the thermos with him, but had had it filled up by an old woman working a little hole-in-the-wall shop on his way to the vantage point. It tasted like it'd been filtered through a dirty jockstrap and smelled like it, too, but it was thick and black and strong and it kept him awake, which was all he really wanted it from it, in the end.

It was dreadfully boring at first, his vigil, complete with the ever creeping sense of time poorly wasted that had been dogging him since he'd first caught sight of his ostensible quarry. Getting into the building had been a piece of cake, a simple matter of walking up to a night watchman who was too drunk, too lazy, too fat, or all of the above to even bother standing up at Zuko's approach, convincing the poor sap Zuko had no intention of stealing anything (after all, he was alone, and hadn't brought so much as a satchel with him), and then slipping the guy a hundred won to forget Zuko was ever there. Then, it was up the stairs to the twelfth floor, because nobody ever took the stairs and he felt like he needed the exertion, after which he'd found the abandoned office, jimmied the lock, set himself up by the window, lit a cigarette, and waited.

And waited.

And waited…

He could never remember when he spotted the girl. His binoculars were fixed on the thirteenth floor, on the windows of a hotel room that was far too nice for some junior flunky with a routine trade delegation but more than adequate for a ham-handed would-be spy who didn't seem to think that tradecraft was of vital importance to anybody. But Jet seemed determined not to put in an appearance, for reasons Zuko could only guess at, and his gaze began to wander, his eyes desperately seeking out something, anything, that could be of any interest at all.

And that's when he saw her. She was sitting at a little desk in a little room up on the fourteenth floor, gazing out the windows, absently puffing on a cigarette and sipping a cup of something that Zuko found himself hoping tasted better than what he was swilling. She was dressed in a loose set of rather conservative pajamas, her long, wavy hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, her dark skin providing a startling contrast to the cream-white color of the pajamas. She was beautiful, Zuko could tell that at a glance, and obviously of Water Tribe extraction, but neither of those were what drew his attention. There were beautiful women in a half-dozen windows within his view, several of them doing far more interesting things in far more interesting outfits, and while he was human enough to give such goings-on a glance, he was also old enough and, if he was honest, buttoned-down-enough to quickly grow bored and move on.

No, there was…there was something different about her. Something…something special. He zoomed in, focused, yearning to find out what it might be. The longer he looked, the more his practiced eye picked out details. She had a pair of thick-framed eyeglasses on, but the way she kept fiddling with them told him that she didn't wear them very often. There was a professional-looking outfit draped over the end of the bed, carefully pressed and arranged, but it was blatantly not in the least bit expensive. She was low on whatever totem pole she existed on, and she looked tired, very tired, so tired he wondered why she didn't sleep.

Maybe that was what caught his attention: The exhaustion so deep, she couldn't sleep. He knew that feeling.

He knew it very well.

And then she was up, startled, like a fox-antelope that's just heard a hunter's gunshot echoing over the hills. For a second, Zuko came close to panic. Has she seen me? Is she even now on her way to the phone to call the police, report the pervert staring through her window? But then she was turning, away from the window, towards the door, and Zuko swung his binoculars to his left and saw on the other side of the door a visibly intoxicated Jet, slamming his fists against what Zuko could only assume was very thin, very cheap plywood. Jet banged and banged, on and on, and he looked like he was shouting, though what he was shouting, Zuko could only guess, he never was good at reading lips, that was always his sister's skill. The girl was walking to the door, slowly, carefully, her arms wrapped tight around her body, and Zuko found himself invested. He was begging, begging over and over again in his mind, don't go, don't open the door, don't do it, turn around, walk away, just walk away, and for a few disturbing seconds, he was a child again, holding his sobbing sister as, somewhere in the house, their mother begged their father to stop and Zuko begged for wings so they could all fly away.

The girl had stopped at the door. She was shaking her head, saying something, something that seemed to drive Jet into ever increasing levels of fury. He was really pounding on the door now, waving a finger, and Zuko would've bet good money that he was making some sort of threat, tossing out some sort of boast, but the girl wasn't bending, she was heading to the bathroom now, she had picked up a bucket, then she came back and the bucket was filled with water and she was setting the bucket on the ground and the water was coming alive and she shouted something and suddenly Jet recoiled. He turned, stomped down the hallway out of sight, came back, left once more, came back again. He gave the door one last kick, and Zuko didn't need to be able to read lips to know the guy was shouting something along the lines of just you wait, you'll be sorry, and then he was gone, and the water settled back into the bucket and the girl had hurled herself into the bed and her face was buried in her hands and her body was shaking and Zuko was gathering his things and heading out the door and he barely even remembered to lock back up behind himself, terrible tradecraft, really, his sister would chew his ass if she ever knew.


The first time he met her was the same night as when he first saw her. Getting into the hotel had been easy; he just breezed right past the doorman, and when one of the girls at the front counter called out to him he just grunted, muttered, Yeah, yeah, I got my fucking key, buzz off, and then he was in the stairwell and on his way up, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't even rate as the third rudest guest that hour, much less that night. On the fourteenth floor, he paused, ducked into an alcove, dabbed the sweat from his brow, gave himself a shake. He ran his fingers through his hair, looked at the time on his watch. It was around midnight, the night crew wouldn't cycle through for another three hours, he'd be long gone by then, tossed his thermos and his binoculars in the nearest trashcan, took a deep breath, let it out, began walking, slowly, calmly, down the hallway.

He thought of a lot of things during that last, fateful minute. He thought of what he would say, how he would play it. He had already gotten a read off Jet, figured him for the kind of creep who would brag about all the secret knowledge he was privy to, anything to impress the nearest girl into bed with him, and the more the girl resisted, the more he would say, while the girl in the hotel room seemed like the kind of girl who wasn't a girl, but a woman, and a woman who would be eager for the chance to make the asshole who wouldn't leave her alone pay. And she's Water Tribe, too, not Earth Kingdom, so she might be more willing to give me a chance, lend me an ear. He would play it slow, though, play it easy. He had four more days until he had to go home, and at least three days after that until Azula started to worry about him, and even then, she'd be more likely to come find him than she would to report him AWOL.

And if that happens, even better. I'm just a scalphunter, I have a feeling there might be buried treasure here, and whatever the girl on the other side of this door won't tell me, she'll tell an actual agent, and Azula's the best that there ever was…

Except for maybe Uncle, of course.

He took a deep breath, let it out, rapped his knuckles lightly on the door. He positioned himself carefully, one shoulder pressed to the wood, the unmarked side of his face clearly visible. He ran a final hand through his hair, until it was somewhere between mussed and kempt, tried to give an air of concerned citizen, just checking up on everyone, no worries, I'll go if you don't-

"Who is it?"

The voice was in Inuktitut, and though it was soft, it was threaded with steel, carefully calculated to deter any intruder. Zuko spoke Inuktitut just fine, but he figured he should keep that to himself.

"Um…" he began, stumbling through Hangugeo as if he didn't speak it perfectly. "Just…um…what was that, ma'am?"

There was a pause, and he could feel the relief through the door, the relief but also the wariness. Gods, what has that asshole downstairs been putting her through? The familiar rage blossomed deep in the pit of his stomach, but he fought it, wrestled with it, forced it down. Be calm, be cool, be professional, his sister's voice intoned in his ears. And, for once in your gods-damn life, Zu-Zu, think before you fucking leap, okay?

He allowed himself a small smile. Okay, Zula, got it, alright? Just chill.

The voice came back, stronger this time, more forceful, in solid Hangugeo, the final indication that she was in the same trade delegation Jet pretended to be a part of. "Nothing, don't worry about it…um…who are you?"

He leaned back from the peephole, careful to show his good side (such as it was), did his best to smile. "Name's Hajime, ma'am, Mishima Hajime. I'm just a couple doors down, heard the racket, thought I'd come check on you, see if you were okay." There was silence, and Zuko became very aware of the weight of his tongue in his mouth, fought down an incipient stutter, pressed on, willed his hand away from the back of his neck. "It's just…um…well…I thought about calling the police, you know? I…" A good spy tells as much of the truth as possible, Uncle's voice gently reminded him. The best lies are at least ninety-percent unvarnished truth. "Heh…you see, I…I don't like things like that, but…well…experience has taught me to always ask first, you know? Try to find out what's going on, but…" He paused, swallowed hard, didn't even have to fake how dry and scratchy his throat felt. "If you…um…I can go, if you'd rather, just thought I'd…I dunno…it was stupid…just…um…"

The door opened, not wide, the chain kept it from swinging all the way, but enough, oh gods, more than enough, because she was there, and there was a curious smile on her face, and she was the most beautiful woman that Zuko had ever seen in his entire life.

Which was good, because if he hadn't been dumbstruck, he had a sneaking suspicion he would've ruined the illusion.

She examined him closely, looking him up and down, taking in every inch, and then she was nodding towards the left side of his face and it was only then that he realized that he'd been so caught off-guard that he'd turn to fully face her and his scar was on full display.

And for the first time in his life, he didn't feel self-conscious about it.

"Don't take this wrong way," she said, in rather impressive Nihongo, Zuko wasn't too surprised, she was obviously bright, but it didn't take a genius to see that he was Fire Nation, "but…how did you get that scar?"

Zuko considered a lie, discarded it, went with the truth, hooking a thumb in the direction that Jet had gone. "A guy like that, if the truth be told."

She nodded, and she seemed to be smiling, though he couldn't be sure, suspected it was only his imagination. "I…you know, I believe you…"

He tried on a dopey grin, took comfort from the fact that her own smile didn't disappear, that she didn't slam the door, which was what most people did when he tried to smile. "Yeah, well…I've always found that it's best to stick to the truth as much as possible."

She laughed, soft, distant, but a laugh nonetheless, and he felt absurdly proud that he'd gotten it out of her. "Yeah…that's a good rule for a spy."

Shit. Should've thought this through. She sees right through me, and why shouldn't she? Or she doesn't; maybe she's just messing me. Calm, cool, and professional, dipshit.

Calm, cool, and professional.

He forced himself to chuckle. "What gave you that idea?"

She tilted her head until her brow was resting on the doorjamb, and he was pretty sure she really was smiling now, or, at the very least, was amused. "Oh, this and that. What's your room number?"

He pondered how to answer that, saw a lifeline, latched on to it. "You know, for someone who seems to think I'm a spy…you don't seem in a hurry to slam the door and report me."

The smile faded. "That's because you don't know who I'd have to report you to."

I knew it. "The asshole who was just banging on the door?"

Her expression turned savage, almost feral, and he was suddenly very glad that she had yet to have reason to hate him, even a little. "I'm afraid so," she admitted. "Being a citizen of a nation that's little more than a puppet of the Earth Kingdom has some…unfortunate drawbacks."

Zuko found himself thinking of how puppet was a good way to describe the position of the Northern Water Tribe relative to his own country, and pushed the thought away, classifying it as profoundly unhelpful. "Yeah, well…them's the shakes, I supposed." He frowned, pointed past her shoulder and into the room. "Since you're speaking so frankly, I take it that your room isn't bugged?"

She let out a hollow laugh. "You kidding? That son-of-a-bitch Jet made sure it wasn't, you know, for privacy. Made a big deal about how I should thank him for it."

He nodded, stuck his hands deep in his pockets. "Well, if you're sure…how about I come in, sit down, have a chat?"

She closed her eyes then, closed her eyes and seemed to fade far, far away. He shifted his feet awkwardly, first one, then the other, and he couldn't help himself this time, his hand drifted out of his pocket and up to his neck, began to absently rub. He very much wanted a cigarette, could feel his current packet sitting in the inside pocket of his jacket, could feel the spares stashed around in other pockets. He wanted nothing more than to get a positive answer from her, wanted that more than anything, and he wasn't good enough at self-deception to pretend that it was all professional, no, not at all.

That's when he became aware of the humming, soft and low, and he realized it was from her. Her eyes were closed and half her mouth was up in a grin and the other half was down in a frown, and she was humming a tune he didn't recognize, but it sounded…

It sounded like a lullaby…

"You know what?"

He blinked, smiled, snatched his hand from the back of his neck, crammed it into his pocket. "What, miss?"

She opened her eyes, closed the door, undid the chain, opened it, jerked her head to let him know to follow her.

"I've got a better idea. How about you take me out for a few drinks, and we talk somewhere that isn't certified surveillance device-free by the guy currently trying to intimidate his way into my pants?"

He chuckled, because that was exactly what he was going to suggest, if she'd proved amenable to his request. "Sounds good to me." He stepped inside, let the door close behind him, moved to the little desk by the window. There was an ashtray there, and he dug out his cigarettes, stuck one in his mouth, couldn't be bothered to look for a lighter, turned to face the window and lit it with a snap of his fingers. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all," came the reply, as she grabbed some clothes from her suitcase and headed into the bathroom.

"Great. Mind if I ask your name?"

A pause, a laugh, and then an answer.

"Katara."


When it was all said and done, there would be two things that haunted him, haunted him even more than her deep blue eyes or the feel of her hair as he ran his fingers through it.

One, would be her name.

The other, would be her lullaby.


So, we return to the little AU I set up in Drunk, can continue hurtling towards whatever horrors I have laying in wait for you. I know I promised that today's chapter would finish that story, and that today would also contain an emotional gut-punch on par with yesterday's Regret, but, at the end of the day, well...

Actually, it's not that simple of a story. Those of you who know me, know that I can be a bit wordy. That's something I've been working on hard lately; I have a tendency to ramble on, and considering that I'm currently trying to turn a long, rambling narrative into a tight, 65-70,000 word novel fit for submission to a literary agent, it's a skill I desperately need to polish. That's why I like things like this, themed weeks and months and even nice little challenges. It forces me to keep things tight, get to the point of the story, to never say with ten words what can be said with five, or even two. That's why, when I set out to tackle Zutara Month 2015, I decided that I would aim for an average story-length of about 1,500-2,000 words, and I would never go above 5,000. So far, I like to think I've been doing a pretty tolerable job, but when I sat down to write my planned response for this prompt, I encountered a problem, namely that I had far too much story for one day's prompt.

That was a major issue. I wracked my brain, pounded my skull against my keyboard, and, in the end, realized that the solution was sitting right in front of me, so close that if it had been a rattlesnake, I'd be dead. That being that, today's prompt provided a perfect place to write the mid-point of the story, and that Unravel, which is coming on the twenty-first, would be the perfect place to put the end. I wasn't particularly happy with what I'd had planned for that day anyway, and now I am.

So, there's a little glimpse into my head-space as I pound through the prompts and put this little project together. I hope you liked it, because I didn't really like today's entry until I re-read it this morning for proofreading purposes. Now, I'm discovering that I like it quite nicely, thank you very much, and not only that, but I'm kicking myself for not planning things like this from the beginning.

Man...I really should've just pretended that I had this all carefully and intricately planned out right from the start, shouldn't I? Oh well, you guys know me well enough by now to know that would be bullshit, and besides, my wife would just smack me upside the head and tell me to stop trying to put on airs.

Well...she wouldn't actually do that; if anything, she's going to get on my case for being down on myself. Speaking of my wife, there's a good chance she's going to be able to come home from her training early today, which is awesome. I'm pretty stoked. It's like a holiday, right in the middle of the week! *is happy*

Moving on! In tomorrow's episode, I take my longtime readers waaaaay back, when we dip into the universe of Wild, Wild Love, stepping into the Caverns of Destiny as an unexpected character makes an unexpected choice. Stay tuned!