#4. Present

So titled because, dear readers, it is your present ^_^

But also a reminder—sometimes, I know, a much-needed one—of where it is we need to live. I think it's good to remember that for everything that happens to the Gaang, they're really still kids, and kids need to get a chance to be little sometimes. Even if they were in a war, it's no reason for them to grow up too fast—or, for that matter, for us to think they're completely grown up.

I bring up living in the present for the same reason I bring up kids, specifically ones who are far more grown-up than they should ever have to be. Right now, I have a favor to ask of anyone who's reading. My friend Izzy passed away a few days ago from a brain tumor. She was sixteen, and she'd been fighting cancer since age thirteen. To me, that defines courage. She was just a kid too, and I know I'll never be able to understand how she did what she did, but she is one of the strongest and bravest people I know.

A moment of silence for someone you didn't know is, I suspect, slightly uncomfortable for most of you, so I won't ask that of you. But please, take a moment right now for all the kids with cancer who have to be brave in spite of their age, and in spite of fairness. I don't know if you know anyone who's gone through that, but they are some of the strongest people in the world.

Thanks, guys.

Disclaimer: Don't own A:tLA, and anyone who knows Santa's coming to your house this year, stop reading right now.


PTSD, it's called, if you're getting really technical about it. It's the aftermath of the trauma, the stain left behind, the scar you can't see. It screws you up from the inside out, apparently, and it makes all those shadows in the back of your head come to life.

He knows he should be afraid. Sometimes he is. He's not going to lie and pretend like he doesn't have nightmares. You know what scared the hell out of him? The battle at the North Pole. That was what he did last Christmas, one year ago come tomorrow. Until that day, he'd never been in a real war before that. And then there was Yue and the fricking spirit fish and frankly, he was not remotely equipped to deal with any of that.

So what do you do with that kind of thing? What do you do with memories that hurt like nothing you've ever known before? You put them inside you, he learned. That's the only way. He's got a little bag of memories inside him, and he leaves a careful space around them, because every memory is broken glass, and they'll cut him if he tries to touch them. He could let them out and they'd tear him apart from the inside out. Shredded. That's how he'd look.

Is it a disorder? Well, yeah. He's a little bit screwed up. Everyone says that's part of growing up, is getting screwed up.

(Yeah, it is. They're right. The real difference between being a teenager and an adult is that once you're the latter, you realize that everyone's screwed up, and not just you. Toph agrees that that's a pretty deep observation, right before she reminds him she's always known you were screwed up, Snoozles.)

He supposes he must be bad at being a kid—that or he really must be grown up—because he doesn't want to do this any more. He doesn't like being mature or acting tougher than he is and he hates what the war has done to him some days. At times when he swings his club and it's not just part of the fighting; it's rage behind the blow, all the injustice he tries to keep in a neat little bottle, carefully corked. He'll explode some day.

He misses being a kid. So, if he thinks about it, that's probably why he spends so much time with her now.

How else is he meant to keep going? Look: Aang's got the weight of the world on his shoulders and maybe he's bearing it with all the grace he can, but Katara's carrying him. Sure, Aang's walking, but she's his crutch. Iroh does the same thing for Zuko, and Suki for her warriors, and Sokka knows he ought to be a crutch too for someone too.

But he's done that, hasn't he? He's been a communal crutch, for Spirits' sake, the only sane one in their little band of misfit prodigies, and he knows he's had enough, that if anyone else tries to lean on him he'll snap. Who knew it wouldn't take fights and loss and fear to break him? That all it would take was growing up?

He lives for running away now. It's a coping mechanism, and his sister can say what she likes, but Suki beats her punching bags until it's too dark to see sometimes, and Iroh slips a dash of firewhiskey into his tea when no one's looking, and sometimes even Katara goes and sits in the rain, staring at nothing, when she's sure no one can see the difference between raindrops and tears flashing across her cheeks.

Compared to that, what kind of vice is she? Sometimes he even convinces himself that she's not a vice at all. She's just a friend. And friendship's not a vice, or if it is, it's the most tolerated one of all.

So soon, it comes to the point where he can't walk without her. If she ever minded she never said, and now they're spending Christmas together at Zuko's new palace. He got a little bit lost somewhere between dining room number five and the third foyer, but he turns a corner suddenly and sees her sitting at the end of a long room, crouched in front of a fireplace. The tree behind her is dappled with candles, all of them lending a syrupy gold light to the air. Toph hears him in the doorway and angles her head towards him as she does when she's listening.

"I'm just leaving out food for him," she explains calmly, and Sokka blinks.

"Him?"

"Who do you think? Santa," she replies, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"But he's not—" he starts, and then she turns and the words wither on his tongue. She's biting her lip, and silhouetted against the glow of the fire like a shadow puppet, she looks so small. Her face, for once, has no trace of sarcasm, and it's as though years have been wiped from her face.

(It's almost strange to think she's adorable but she is: he wants suddenly to hug her. How did he never know how little she was? Twelve, holy hell—twelve isn't even a teenager; twelve is a child, and she's so little…!)

"Not... what?"

The end of the sentence is lodged sideways in his throat. Does he remember finding out? Of course. He was eight, much younger—when your entire family sleeps in one hut, nothing stays secret for long—and it was the first time he cried since his mother died. Certainly, he doubts Toph would cry, but the thought of telling her makes his gut wrench with nausea. Tell the truth right now, and he knows he won't be able to sleep tonight.

He swallows hard.

"Not… like Santa'll be hungry, right? He's got to visit a lot of houses tonight."

"Old men can always eat more," Toph grouches, setting down the plate. "Look at Iroh."

"Don't let him hear you say that," warns Sokka, but it's relief in his voice more than anything else. She snorts and sits down in front of the fire, holding out her hands to warm them, and Sokka hesitates and marvels quietly at the sight in front of him. Of course she's a kid. Twelve. How did he forget?

Without turning from the fire, she reaches out, patting the hearth beside her. He understands instantly and walks over, taking a seat next to her. She scoots closer, leaning back against his shoulder. He feels a sudden throb of warmth go through him, a little pulse of happiness at the easy trust they've come to share. Toph doesn't lean on many people figuratively, let alone literally.

"Did you ask Santa for anything?"

She shrugs against his arm. "Yeah."

"Anything in particular?"

He watches her hesitate, and then she sighs, head flopping back to rest on his shoulder. "Christmas sucks at my house," she admits quietly. "Mom and Dad always make a huge deal out of it, and it's only ever the three of us, and then they start to fight, and…" She trails away, and her fingers trace circles on the stone hearth. "I wanted to spend Christmas with my friends," she murmurs. "So it doesn't matter too much what I get. This is a good present."

"You can always spend Christmas with me," he replies, without thinking, and only after the words have echoed back through his ears does he realize he means it.

(Falling in love was a little bit inevitable, he would later understand, but never until then did he see what a beautifully subtle process it was. This doesn't feel anything like he'd expected. Falling—that sounds fast and panicked, full of adrenaline, doesn't it? But this—this was a slow, steady amble, arm in arm, each of them leaning as much as pride allowed on the other. He didn't know he'd been walking until he was already there.)

There's a thoughtful pause from Toph's end of the conversation. "You serious?" she says at last, and he smiles.

"Better believe it."

"Freaking Christmas spirit's making you sappy," she observes, nudging him lightly, and he laughs and then looks down at her and catches his breath a little bit. She looks so small, so effortlessly happy. When was the last time he remembered she was a kid? Since the first time he saw her fight, she's never seemed like a little girl, but she always has been.

He's growing up, he knows, whether he likes it or not. Sure, it would have happened anyway, but it's not just that; everyone expected him older, needed him to get over being little and naïve, and so he did. He grew up because that was what people expected—and if everyone looks at Toph and sees the Runaway, the Blind Bandit, the war hero, how long until her only option is to meet those expectations?

Sokka looks at his best friend and worries, with a fear so sharp and painful he can't breathe for a moment, and when at last he can speak he mumbles, "Toph, don't… don't grow up too fast."

For a moment he sees her hover on the edge of a question, but she never asks it and it's just as well. They sit for a moment more, and then she yawns and lurches heavily to her feet. "Night, Sokka," she murmurs, turning away.

He smiles and calls, "Merry Christmas, Toph," as she leaves the room.

Ten minutes later, Iroh walks in, grins at Sokka, and eats the cookies that are sitting out by the fire.

(When she finally does find out about Santa, she hits Sokka for lying to her, and then she hugs him because she knows he did the right thing.)


Well, it's not exactly the most non-denominational of oneshots. But happy holidays, guys, whatever you celebrate, and have a great new year!

—skrybble