Title: The Taming of the Shrew
Author: setlib
Rating: T-rated for language and sexual content
Setting: Alternate Universe – modern high school, no bending
Pairings: Zuko x Katara
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any characters from Avatar: The Last Airbender.

Summary: Zuko and Katara are seniors in high school. He teases her, then ignores her. She despises him. But when Zuko's father kicks him out of the house and he has to move in with his hippie Uncle Iroh, he begins to see Katara in a new light. But as the bard warned, "the course of true love never did run smooth."

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The Taming of the Shrew, Chapter 9: Gesture

The rest of the week was really strange. Aang was sullen in class, grumbling, but Zuko was…nice, actually. He was subdued, maybe a little tired, but very considerate. Complimentary. Even studious. In the course of a week, my opinion of Zuko had shifted from indifference, to furious disdain, to wary affection. He no longer made me uncomfortable in class. He still teased me, but either he was gentler or I was just getting used to his sense of humor, because I often found myself laughing along with him:

KATHARINA: Husband, let's follow, to see the end of this ado.

PETRUCHIO: First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

KATHARINA: What, in the midst of the street?

PETRUCHIO: What, art thou ashamed of me?

KATHARINA: No, sir, God forbid; but ashamed to kiss.

PETRUCHIO: Why, then let's home again. Come, sirrah, let's away.

KATHARINA: Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay.

PETRUCHIO: Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate:
Better once than never, for never too late.

We didn't kiss, of course, in the middle of class. But he held my gaze, and I could tell he was thinking about it. And to be perfectly honest, so was I. By the end of the week I found myself looking forward to seeing Zuko each morning, and thinking about him each night. When the weekend came, I realized I would actually miss him.

Saturday morning, like always, I went to the Farmer's market to stock up on fresh fruits and vegetables for the week. Apples were just coming into season, they were still a little small and sour, but would be perfect for apple pie. I bought everything I needed for the restaurant and loaded it into our battered white pickup truck. I pulled into our parking lot mid-morning and noticed Pakku's van already in the driveway.

"Gran Gran! I'm back!" I called as I carried a basket of apples into the kitchen. The air smelled rich and sweet, I noted with satisfaction as I checked on the loaves of zucchini bread I had baked earlier that morning. They were cool now and would be ready to serve with brunch. I would wrap up the extra loaves and see if maybe we could sell them.

"Hey kid," Pakku said as he came down the stairs. "I'm glad you're back! Your Gran is getting the massage rooms ready. I just got a call, two clients are coming in about half an hour."

"At the same time?"

He nodded. "You know what that means –"

"My first solo job!" I squealed.

"Now, you can't charge as much, since you're not licensed yet. Just $20 for a half hour. But you get to keep all of it, plus tips."

I grinned. Even though the $200 I needed for the application to cooking school was still a long way off, every little bit would help. Pakku helped me carry in the rest of the bags and unpack them in the kitchen.

"What's this?" He held up small packages of dried cherries and cocoa powder.

"Oh, I had an idea for my own gourmet chocolates. I started them this morning, but they needed a little something extra. If they're good, I thought maybe we could sell them, in packages of four or something?"

He reached out and flicked my pony tail. "You're always thinking, Katara. I like that."

I laughed and brought out the trays of cooled chocolates. I had formed them into smooth half-globes. They were delicious, rich and creamy, but plain. "Look at this," I said, pulling out a scoop of cocoa powder, mixing it with some ground espresso beans, and dusting the combination lightly over the candies. They were a rich brown now, about the color of my skin. I put a tiny half of a dried cherry on top. "What do you think?

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, they kind of…I mean, they look a little like…" He cleared his throat. "Uh, they look great." He grabbed one and popped it in his mouth, then nodded. "What are you going to call them?"

"I guess, chocolate cherries? Or mocha cherry drops? Something like that?"

"Keep thinking about it. You'll come up with something." He glanced at the clock. "Here, let me put the rest of this away. Go change your clothes. The clients will be here soon."

I raced over to our cottage and into my room. The ratty old jeans and sweatshirt I was wearing were sturdy, perfect for the Farmer's Market, but Pakku always stressed how important it was to wear something comfortable for a massage. I slipped on a soft white t-shirt and a blue cotton skirt that swirled delicately around my knees. I dragged a brush through my hair and then swiftly braided it so it wouldn't get in the way. By the time I finished and stepped back outside, an expensive silver car was already parked in the driveway.

I walked into the small renovated lobby that served as our spa entrance and Pakku waved me forward. "It's a father and son, they just came from golfing at the country club."

"Well, la-dee-da," I laughed.

He snorted and we headed upstairs to the rooms. "Yeah, but they might tip well. I'll take care of the old guy, he seems pretty picky. You handle the son. He just wanted the regular Swedish massage, although keep in mind he's an athlete, so there might be more muscle strain than with the usual tourists. He's already changing in room two. Just remember to act professional and you should be fine."

"No problem." Pakku disappeared into the first suite and I paused outside the second one. I took a deep breath and smoothed my clothes. I could do this. I had given over thirty massages with Pakku mentoring me. I knew the most popular techniques, and had built up the necessary strength in my hands and arms. Most of all, I liked the opportunity to help people, to make them feel better if they were hurting. I was ready.

I knocked softly and opened the door. The glare from the windows on the other side of the room overlooking the ocean blinded me momentarily. Gran Gran had lit sandalwood candles – a very masculine choice – and the relaxing scent calmed me as I stepped inside. A shadowed figure moved away from the windows, and as I walked into the room, it coalesced into a familiar shape. My jaw dropped, my heart pounded in a primal fight-or-flight reaction when I realized who my client was.

"Hello, Katara." Zuko stepped away from the blinding light, the golden glow of the candles reflecting on the wide expanse of his skin. He was completely naked except for a small white towel slung low across his hips. He stood only a few feet in front of me, arms crossed, and his presence seemed to fill the entire room. I knew he was tall, but I felt like he was towering over me now, his chest impossibly broad, the delineated muscles of his arms and abdomen making my mouth go dry.

A host of conflicting thoughts crowded into my head at the same time. I wanted to run out of the room. I wanted to reach out and touch him. Had he planned this just to fluster me? Could I stand to disappoint Pakku? At that last thought, I realized I could take refuge in the training I'd received. I was a professional. He was a client, just like any other client. I could do this.

"Zuko. This is a surprise." I thought my voice was relatively cool and collected.

"The spa at the club was all booked up, so we'd figure we'd try yours." He shrugged, and even that small movement was like living poetry as the candlelight played across the hard curves of his shoulders. I tried to pull my thoughts back into line.

"If you'll just lie down on the table, we can get started." The massage table sat in the center of the room on a permanent wooden frame, with cabinets underneath for storing towels and lotions. Some of our clients needed a step stool to climb on, but Zuko lifted himself up easily.

"Pakku said you wanted the traditional Swedish massage? Are there any particular areas where you're feeling pain or tension?" I held my breath after this introductory question. Zuko could so easily twist this into an opportunity to embarrass me. But he didn't.

"I've been running a lot, so yeah, my calves are sore."

I nodded encouragingly, relieved that he wasn't trying to pull anything, then realized I was bobbing my head like a dork and stopped. I took a calming breath and pulled the face cradle attachment out from the table. "Just lie on your stomach, and put your head here. Try to relax."

I turned away while he shifted into position and moved to the side table with the candles. It also held a CD player, a timer set to a half hour, and some of our essential oils. "Would you like me to turn on some music?"

"No – no music." I heard his voice behind me, slightly muffled. He must lying flat on the table now.

"All right, then. You can pick the oil you want. Grapeseed oil is popular with the tourists."

He snorted. "I see enough grapes every day already. Pick something else."

"How about almond oil?" I said, plucking the bottle off the table. "It's edible." Wait, why did I volunteer that?

"I'll keep that in mind."

Was he laughing? I couldn't quite tell. I turned around to find him stretched out on the table, waiting quietly for me to begin. Just like any other client, I reminded myself, pouring some almond oil onto my palm and rubbing my hands briskly to warm it up.

I started at the small of his back, alternating between kneading the muscles there to release tension, and reaching out in long, gliding strokes to promote relaxation. I'd had other clients, especially women, who liked to talk the whole time, or bossy ones who were constantly telling me where and how hard to rub. Zuko didn't speak, didn't even make the moans and groans that most people did. However I could still tell when I hit a sore spot, because I could feel his muscles tense protectively before slowly relaxing. Without speech, I became attuned to each subtle flex and shudder of his body.

I had never had anyone refuse music before, and the sound of my own breathing seemed abnormally loud in the room. In the quiet I found myself becoming absorbed in the sounds made by the slick slide of my flesh against his. I moved up to his shoulders, marveling silently at their beauty, grateful he couldn't see the wonder on my face as I explored the long lines of his arms, the proud bend of his neck.

When I moved to his legs, he began to tense again, and my fingers found evidence of muscle strain and overuse. Buildup of lactic acid was blocking proper blood flow, and I spent a great deal of time kneading and smoothing everything from the backs of his thighs to the soles of his feet. I was feeling very professional when I told him it was time to turn over, until he did, and the thin white towel he was using to cover himself was no match for the massive erection he was sporting.

His knee was bent as he leaned up on one elbow and smiled unapologetically. "See what you do to me?"

I am a professional. I am a professional. I am a professional.

Pakku had warned me this was fairly common. It was an unconscious physical response, something that couldn't really be controlled. As long as the client wasn't behaving badly, I should try to just stay cool and ignore it. But it was pretty damned hard to ignore six feet of turned-on Zuko right in front of me. The more I tried not to look at his erection, the harder it was to look away.

"Why don't I get you a heavier towel?" I scrambled in the cabinets under the table, handing another towel to Zuko and then finding an excuse to busy myself over by the table with the oils.

When I turned around, he was lying comfortably on his back with the thicker towel bunched across his hips. It didn't help. I might not be able to see the shape of his erection anymore, but I still knew it was there. I took a deep breath and returned to the massage table to finish working on his legs. My palms glided along the tops of his thighs, and each touch took on a different significance now that I knew I was turning him on. It was hard not to think about the fact that I only had to move my hands a few inches, slip them under that towel, and I would be able to measure the length and width of him for myself.

Most clients closed their eyes when they were lying on their backs, but not Zuko. He stared right at me, watching me as I leaned across his body, slid slick fingers across his flesh. He might be on his best behavior, keeping most of his suggestive thoughts to himself, but I could tell by the heat in his gaze that those unspoken thoughts could have set the room ablaze. When it was time for me to move up to work on his chest, I could feel a slow fire burning in my belly as well, robbing me of breath.

I poured more oil onto my hands and spread them slowly across his ribs, down his abdomen, and along the rise of his hips. Strictly speaking, I was going beyond the standard realm of Swedish massage, but I had become awash in sensation. Most of the clients I had seen so far were overweight middle-aged men, covered in hair, soft from inactivity. Zuko's body was smooth, toned, and beautiful. No longer thinking about easing the aches and strain in his muscles, I had lost myself to the pure physical joy of touching him.

I could feel his breathing quicken beneath my hands, his gaze tracing the lines of my body. I realized the white t-shirt I had chosen was too thin, and the outline of my nipples was clearly visible. But I didn't feel embarrassed, or try to cover myself. I was too aroused for that. I watched him watch me, reveling in the desire I saw in his eyes, and felt myself wishing that it was his hands rather than his gaze on me.

But when his hand did rise slowly, it startled me. I had become so used to him lying tamely beneath me, I had forgotten what a dangerous game I was playing. But he didn't touch me, he simply wrapped his hand around the end of my braid, removing the rubber band.

"You have the prettiest hair I've ever seen," he said huskily. He tangled his fingers in my braid briefly, then with a quick flick of his wrist, it began to unravel. My hair flowed over my shoulders, cascading down my arms to fall across his chest. He plucked one lock in his hand, gently curling it around and around his fingers. I leaned over him, still sliding my hands across his biceps, his shoulders, his chest, while he touched nothing except that single stand of my hair.

I reached up to stroke his face, my fingers gliding smoothly to soothe the tension in his forehead, across his high cheekbones. I let myself feel his short black hair, the crew cut tickling my palms until I slid my hands along his ears, toward his thin, wide mouth. My ragged breath echoed loudly in the room as I stoked his lips, leaning over him, ready to discard the pretense that I was still giving him a therapeutic massage, that I was doing anything other than exploring his body for my own pleasure. His gaze held mine, his fingers wrapping around my hair, pulling me closer and closer until I could smell his cinnamon breath, see sparks of dark brown in his golden eyes.

Suddenly a bell chimed and I jumped back guiltily, jerking my hair out of his fingers. "Time's up," I gasped, backing away from him. He sat up, his fierce gaze following me as his body vibrated with tension. I fled across the room, blowing out the candles and putting away the oils. When I turned around he had secured the towel around his waist and walked to the other side of the massage table to pull his wallet out of his pants. He opened it, taking out a wad of cash.

"That was exceptional, Katara. Much more…thorough…than I expected." The biting sarcasm I remembered was back in his voice. "How much do I owe you for your services?" He started pulling off bills and a voice in my head counted…twenty…forty…sixty…eighty…one hundred. He dropped the stack onto the massage table, and I felt tears spring to my eyes. This had been the most erotic experience of my life, and he wanted to reduce it to a financial transaction? And yet…it was so much money.

"Take it, Katara. You earned every penny."

I couldn't stand the cool superiority in his voice. "Damn you, I don't want your money."

He smirked. "So you're giving it away for free, then? I'll be sure to tell the rest of the cross country team. You'll be very popular when they find out."

"Shut up!" I snatched the money off the table and fled the room, slamming the door behind me for good measure.

I stomped down the stairs and ran straight into Jun, the manicurist who worked at our salon. She took one look at my face and said, "Honey, what's wrong?"

I sputtered and pointed upstairs, but the only word I could spit out was, "Zuko!"

A look of understanding crossed her face and she pulled me close for a hug. "Say no more. I know as well as anyone what a jerk my nephew can be."

I pulled back. "What do you mean, your nephew?" I looked at what Jun was wearing, her typical dominatrix outfit with black leather thigh-high boots, a black miniskirt and an armored bra that showed off her tattoos, and shook my head. "No, that's not possible. I'm talking about Zuko Fujiwara, he goes to my school."

She nodded. "Yep, that's the one. You know my husband, Iroh? Zuko's Dad is his brother."

My mind refused to make the connection. The old hippie everyone called "Uncle Iroh", who owned the "tea" (otherwise known as "medicinal herb") shop called the Jasmine Dragon? Who slipped all the local children candy and played the French Horn on music night in his teashop? How could he possibly be related to Zuko of all people? "That's impossible! Iroh's so nice, and Zuko is so horrible!"

"We're not allowed to visit Zuko or his sister at all. Iroh used to try to catch them outside of school until his brother threatened him with a restraining order. Iroh keeps insisting that Zuko's a good kid at heart, if we can just get him into AA before it's too late."

"What? He has a drinking problem?"

"No – Not 'Alcoholics Anonymous.' I'm talking about 'Assholes Anonymous.' He needs a serious attitude intervention."

I laughed despite myself. "I guess you really do know him."

"Look, the thing is, his father's a real piece of work. He's got that kid wound up so tight, he doesn't know which way is up. So try to cut him a little slack." Jun sat down behind the desk and flipped open her appointment book. "I've got a mani-pedi scheduled soon, let me finish that, and then we can have a good girl talk over lunch, okay?"

I smiled, feeling better. "And you can try my new creation! I'm making chocolates now!"

"Honey, I never wait for chocolates. Where are they?"

"In the kitchen."

Jun got up. "I'm going to get them. Wait right here."

After she left, I realized my hand was still fisted around the wad of cash from Zuko. I took a deep breath and tried to look at it again without so much emotion. He'd paid for his massage, and given me a generous tip. And for some reason I'd taken that as an insult. I shook my head. Whenever Zuko was involved, it was like all the laws of logic and reason got turned around. I had let myself get turned on, and then got angry when he didn't seem to consider the experience to be as earth-shattering as I did.

I heard the door close, and his footsteps coming down the stairs. I was going to be a big girl this time. No more temper tantrums. If he wanted to drop a hundred dollars on a massage, I wasn't going to discourage him. Heck, he could come back tomorrow, and then I'd have enough money to pay for my college application. I was going to talk to him like a mature adult.

And I was not – was NOT – going to imagine him naked the whole time.