Two weeks spent foraging in unfamiliar territory and walking until their aches had aches was enough to make anyone crave a simple hot meal and a real table to eat it at.
The trio of the remaining Freedom Fighters had chosen to take their meal outside to enjoy the sunlight (to avoid the walls that seemed to shrink; how many years had they spent under the sun and stars?) and to watch the simple comings and goings of the little village around them (to keep an eye out for red clothes and cruel smiles).
Longshot spotted the boy first: set up high on an ostrich horse, with something about the way he held himself raising flags in his mind. He ran an assessing eye over him, noting the stiffness of his back, the slump of his shoulders; the guarded expression and drooping eyes; the hard muscle and hollow cheeks. He was a juxtaposition of weary and wary.
(Why did anyone even bother with words when they chose to do things like that?)
The swords slung over his shoulder, carefully cared for (again, why?) only piqued his interest, as did the scar that suggested an unseen number more, some of them invisible.
(Like needles under the skin, nipping too often to be ignored. Jet would pinch them until they pierced a new wound and finally left; more painful at the moment but soon able to heal.)
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Jet spotting him, freezing in place to watch and likely noting the same things that he had.
At the life he saw laid before him, he let out an audible sigh of fond exasperation. This was rare enough to catch Smellerbee's attention.
She glanced at him, a question in the tilt of her head. (Longshot always appreciated it when she spoke his language.) He replied with a tilt of his head towards Jet, then the stranger, his fingers tapping out a specific pattern.
She looked up, saw him, and realised as quickly as he had.
Longshot exchanged a glance with her across the table. Deliberately slowly, he raised a single eyebrow in amusement, mentally counting down the seconds before Jet would begin his welcoming speech.
Three… Two… One…
The teen passed them without a second glance, watching just long enough to assess for threats. He kept his head subtly turned so that his better ear was more towards them. Longshot chose to take that as a compliment.
He lowered the eyebrow, turning from one boy to watch the other.
Longing, quickly hidden. Frowning. A twitch as he forced himself to turn his back. A hand gripped chopsticks too tightly.
Jet wanted to take the boy in, add him to his collection of lost kids. There was never any doubt about that. So why..? Ah. His doubts were written across his face, clearer than any words would express.
Was it right for him to take on more kids when he could barely support the two he had? Was he even suitable for the task when it had been only months since he'd lost nearly all of those he'd had before?
Longshot had long since accepted that Jet would keep adding to them. (The other boy didn't know any other way to live.) He'd been rather looking forwards to it actually - the new person would be a clean slate, uninvolved in what they'd done or lost; and Jet needed a new purpose after he'd lost his way, before. The best way for him to help himself was for him to help someone else, feel like he was doing good again.
Jet was no good for anyone when he only had himself to look after, and Longshot and Smellerbee had been with him for far too long to be of much use to him like that.
(That was a good thing, obviously, but Jet needed to deal with his incessant mothering instincts somehow.)
The boy stopped to tie up his ostrich-horse outside the only eatery in the village, only a few metres from them. In one smooth move, practised and comfortable, he slipped his swords from his shoulder to his hip, easier to grab from rest.
He hesitated at the entrance, ear still turned towards their group, hand curled tightly in the rope holding his steed in place. He'd watched them watching him, had probably figured it wasn't him they were interested in. He couldn't risk leaving what was likely one of only two things of value he owned.
The man inside must have noticed his indecision. Eager for a customer, he stepped out of the food hall to talk him through his wares, even offering to bring his meal out to him.
"Does your ostrich horse need feed?" The man asked.
A glance at the scruffy creature, slowly; apology in a soft touch to its feathers. A single coin was gripped tightly between calloused fingers. "I need it more." His tone was hard, as though that could disguise his gentle movements.
Jet flinched. He wasn't looking at him, but with the three of them silent it was impossible not to hear.
"I'm sorry, son-" the boy flinched audibly, worn shoes scuffing the dry earth beneath them, "-but that's not enough coin."
Jet twitched again.
"Do you know about anyone looking for workers?"
"Few 'round here with the coin to spend on one," the man's tone was apologetic, growing more so with his next words. "I know someone who's looking for an ostrich-horse though. He'd give you a fair price."
There was a long considering pause.
"Look, if you can't afford to feed her-"
"I know!" Slightly harsher than before, fingers catching on ungroomed feathers, greasy and limp, barely clinging to loose skin. He softened his grip and his voice. "I know."
Jet touched a hand to his pocket, full of coin they didn't need to spend, not when they could live off the land. (Not when they had someone to pick up the slack when one of them faltered.)
"I'll sweeten the deal," the man said. "You make the trade and I'll give you as much as you can eat today and tomorrow free of charge."
A baffled look; tension in his posture –in his confusion, he felt threatened.
"That coin'd keep you long enough to get somewhere you can make more – I wanna help you, kid, but I won't waste good food on a corpse-to-be. I see too many of them coming through here." The man's voice was gentle, and all the more painful for it. He knew, from painful experience, what he was talking about.
"You gotta keep living after now, kid."
The boy bristled, holding onto the offence for as long as he could, before he deflated.
He turned away from the man, petting his steed's neck, easily finding her favourite places. She moved with him, beak lowering to preen his short hair. He let out a long breath, frozen for a moment.
Then: "This man… where can I find-"
Jet was out of his seat, stepping past the boy to talk to the man. "Give me the best thing you've got to put some meat on a man's bones." His tone didn't allow any disobedience.
The man still took a moment to assess Jet, and gave a solid nod at what he saw. He turned and went inside without asking the boy his opinion.
He was all puffed up again, on the verge of arguing against free food even in his desperation.
He opened and closed his mouth a few times, doing the same with his fists by his sides. Eventually he settled on a hissed, "What do you want?"
Jet didn't hesitate, already knowing not to give him time to panic. "If you know what you're doing with those swords, I'd appreciate a spar. It's been a while."
The boy gave an unconvincing sneer, turning his head to make his scar do the job for him. "I'd rather not waste the energy," he said, an admittance hidden within the insult.
(He seemed to have decided it was safe to be rude to Jet – or maybe he was testing him the hard way.
After a moment's thought, Longshot put his mental betting chips on the latter.)
Jet was careful not to mention the debt the boy already owed him – he likely still had half a mind to refuse the food, if he thought it could be used to box him in; if he thought they might try to trick more favours out of him.
"That's fair," was what he said instead. "But if you wi- were to win," he stumbled for a moment, correcting his words so he didn't appear to assume he was getting his spar, even though he did, "I'd be happy to buy you dinner as well."
As if his words were a cue, the boy's stomach grumbled. His jaw clenched, the movement easy to read through the tight skin, as he restrained himself from reacting to the pain in his gut.
He lifted his chin, trying to both keep an eye on Jet (Was he too close? Did he feel threatened?) and on his friends behind him. His hands twitched, likely wishing for his weapons, then clenched into fists to hide the action.
"And if you happened to win?"
Jet gave him an easy smile (watch your confidence there, Jet), "You have dinner with us." He smirked wider. "My treat."
The boy flinched at the offer for some reason. He let one hand fall to the hilts of his swords, the other opening and closing beside him. His breathing shifted into a somewhat familiar pattern; long heavy inhales and quick efficient exhales. He narrowed his good eye, the other practically shut as it moved sympathetically.
Ready for any fight his words could incite, he asked, "What do you really want?"
(Cut the tiger-bull-shit, Jet, he's expecting the worst here; anything less than absolute honesty…)
"You seem like an interesting person," was Jet's reply, "who could use some people around him. We've been there."
The boy only tensed further. "I'm just fine as I am. I don't need you or u- anyone else."
Jet sidestepped the boy's near slip, but wouldn't forget it.
"If you don't want this to be a favour to yourself – which I understand," he added as the boy puffed up again, "If you absolutely need to believe there's an angle here – and, again, I understand the feeling," (he didn't bother promising that there really wasn't one; the boy would either believe him or not)"What we want from you is another hand, if we find you to be a decent fit."
The boy fiddled with the hilt of his sword, hearing the words they didn't say, and probably some more they didn't mean. They could clarify later. Here and now, they just needed to hook him in.
They'd rather that the boy trusted their pure intentions, but no one like them believed in the kindness of strangers. If the boy thought he had something that they wanted, that he had some power in the situation along with a way to please them (and protect himself from them in doing so), he would trust them far more, if at an arm's length, than he would if they had kept promising they wanted nothing from him. He'd only wait for the other shoe to drop, and be ready to bolt the second they turned their backs, fighting like Koh if they tried to fix trust that had never existed.
The boy eyed them for a second longer, before another gurgle of his stomach made his mind up for him. The suspicion didn't drop from his face, but he let his hand slip from his swords.
"I'll give you a bout after my meal," he said, and the trio controlled their expressions. "And I'll take another meal for my win. That's all that's on the table."
Jet nodded, one boot scuffing the ground as he twisted his foot. "All for now?" Or all overall?
(Damnit, Jet, don't push so hard. He cracked; that's enough.)
"We'll see," he said, neither a yes not a no, but with a slight upward twist to his mouth.
Jet took a step back from him, accepting that for the moment. "Would you join us?" he asked, gesturing to their table, instead of pushing further.
The boy sat himself on the steps next to his ostrich horse without replying, turning his back to them, while facing his good ear towards them. This time Longshot was sure he was pushing Jet, trying to see what would happen if he was rude.
Jet returned to his table, and stuck up a casual conversation with Smellerbee, Longshot occasionally interjecting with an expression or a tap of his fingers. They paid no more attention to the boy, giving him a moment to himself to think things over. He listened to them talking, but didn't react to anything they said.
The minutes passed comfortably.
The man hesitated when he came outside with a thick meaty broth with several slabs of bread; Jet had ordered it, but they both knew it was for the other boy.
The boy solved the problem by grabbing the bowl with a quiet, "Thank you," and taking it over to the table, sitting himself down next to Longshot. There was a small awkward moment before Jet went back to his conversation, making sure to angle himself partly towards the boy so that he knew he could join in.
He said nothing as he ate, one hand holding his bowl protectively the entire time, but made no effort to hide how he watched and listened.
-line break-
Zuko ate slowly despite his hunger (despite his fear that it would be taken away), knowing that he'd lose it all again if he wasn't careful. He waited still after that without speaking to them or moving to stand, half to see if they'd prompt him into fighting (and to see what would happen if he refused), and half to give his body time to process his food properly.
The sun had moved a few fingers' worth across the sky, shadows beginning to lengthen on the table between them, when Zuko's hands had stopped shaking and his vison had cleared (as much as it ever did, at least). He stood to offer a fight, revelling in the ease of movement.
The boy – Jet, presumably the leader – stood with him, trying to hide his assessing look within the motion. Whatever he saw, he didn't comment on.
They took themselves off to a clear area just outside the village, where they wouldn't have to worry about damaging anything or worrying the villagers. The other two – Longshot, archer; Smellerbee, owner of too many hidden knives – sat in the dirt a safe distance away.
Zuko tied Song to a nearby house, at an equal distance from them and from himself. He knew he'd have to trust that that distance was enough to keep her safe throughout the fight; he'd have no attention to spare for her. Even in a fight between allies (and he wasn't sure that this was one, not yet anyway), he couldn't risk taking his eyes off of his opponent.
"To blood?" he asked, unsheathing his swords and taking up a stance, subtly sending a warm rush through his muscles to prepare them, "Or to yield?" He knew he'd have better chances at winning with the second one.
Jet frowned slightly, mirroring him a few metres away. "How about we just get a feel for each other's style? No need to do any damage."
Was it that he doubted Zuko's skill? Did he think him too serious? Was he mocking him? He was certain there was a barb in there somewhere; he just couldn't find it.
He didn't ask any of that, instead simply shrugging. The fight was payment for the food, Jet was in charge here (as much as that grated). "Whatever you want," he said.
Without further ado, he sprang forwards, bringing one sword up and the other down in a wide sweep, keeping his feet light so he could keep pressing on. Jet was on the defensive, stepping back and bring his swords up to block. He twisted his swords, bringing them in towards him and trying to catch his hooks onto Zuko's swords, to disarm him. Zuko pushed him back, stepping back himself, only to throw himself in again a moment later.
Zuko had moved at half-speed, as, it seemed, had Jet. Both of them moved faster and faster as the fight went on and they managed to gauge how well the other could keep up. Soon, neither of them were holding back, meeting each other blow for blow, teeth gritted at they tested metal against metal, grinning with satisfaction at finding a match they could throw their all against and trust to meet them in the middle.
Somewhere throughout the fight, Zuko had abandoned the 'Honourable Rules of Combat' for a full-out brawl, using the sun's reflections on his blade to dazzle Jet, and kicking up sand when he was almost pinned. For a full minute, the two had both lost their swords and tussled with each other on the ground. Zuko had been tempted to bite him.
It wasn't long, however, before Zuko began to tire. The shakes returned to his arms, grip on his swords slipping as he sweated; his legs burned. No matter how he tried to control his breaths, they came in painful gasps. In the back of his mind, he began to panic – he was wasting precious energy on this fight, but couldn't stop without the other's permission, not without risking his dinner, which he only needed more and more as the fight dragged on (Was that his plan? Make him desperate for his meal so he could drag something else from him he didn't want to give?).
(For a half-second he considered letting the other win, if only to end the fight, but his pride banished the thought. Giving anything less than his full effort was unthinkable.)
It wasn't long before a lull came into the fight, and Zuko took the opportunity to refill his lungs, absently noticing the other doing the same. The adrenalin faded as their sweat cooled, becoming chilly in the swift approaching evening. The shakes didn't abate, and he dreaded the return to the fight, now that he could feel his muscles beginning to burn in a different way. He definitely should have stretched.
(He could feel the other's eyes on him, assessing his weakness. Was he good enough? Did he want to be?)
Jet moved towards him, and he pulled his swords back up into an exhausted guard, forcing his spine to straighten and his breaths to even out into something he could actually use. His vision was going hazy again, his left eye near useless.
But the other only sheathed his swords, a gentle hand on Zuko's wrist suggesting he do the same.
"I think we've both had enough," Jet said, still panting slightly, not commenting on how Zuko trembled, barely standing. When Zuko met his eyes, only a foot away from him (too close after so long alone), he saw a fragment of worry there - or maybe apology. He wasn't sure.
He shook the hand off, putting away his swords as he stepped back, using the motion to break eye contact.
"Dinner," Jet said, staying out of his space, but gesturing for him to go with him.
Exhausted, but pretty sure he'd met the boy's criteria, he followed after him, letting himself take a little pride in his skill.
-line break-
This guy is fantastic.
Jet couldn't believe he'd found such a competent swordsman just in the middle of nowhere. The boy was driven, tough, and refused point blank to give anything less than his all, even when he needed to.
That last part was going to be a problem. Jet was used to his people trusting him and telling him what they needed, or having someone else standing next to them ready to tell him. Fleeing the Fire Nation tended to bring out one's self-preservation instincts, and it had been a while since he'd taken on a new recruit (aside from during that… disaster), let alone one with a history outside of what he knew. He'd never worked with an enigma before, and knew instinctively that this boy wasn't going to tell him anything about himself that he didn't absolutely have to.
But that skill, the effort and – judging by his 'warrior etiquette' towards the start of the fight – the formal training he'd had was far too good to let go.
Not to mention that the owner of the eatery from earlier was almost certainly right: this kid was going to die out here without someone there to help him. And he wouldn't take any help unless it was forced upon him when he was too desperate to resist.
He seemed like he was scared of everyone. Jet would bet that had something to do with that scar on his face - but he had a feeling it had more to do with however he came to be travelling alone.
Not that he'd be alone anymore, not if Jet could help it.
Dinner that night was a mostly quiet affair. Like at lunch, the boy didn't speak, eating as slowly as he dared to help his body adjust to the fact that there was food in there for once. Jet wondered how long the boy had been hungry before.
He didn't ask, and was careful not to look at the boy eating, or his food, or to make any sort of comment about his eating habits. Better to act as though the boy wasn't getting the one thing he was most desperate for, which he and his friends could take away at any given moment.
They felt drained as they stepped out into the early evening. The boy seemed to droop the second the sun dipped over the horizon, even as he struggled not to show any weakness. Jet could feel the burn in his muscles that reminded him that it had been a while since he'd done anything other than walking.
He let out a yawn, and winced as he stretched his locked muscles. He turned to the boy, "We're about ready to make camp for the night, do you want to join us? We'll understand if you don't," he added before the boy had the chance to panic over turning them down, which he did immediately.
Jet had known full well that the boy wouldn't allow himself to be that vulnerable near them, but had known that he had to make the offer, so that he'd know that when he wanted to come with them that he could ask and would know that it would be accepted.
"Would you join us for breakfast, though? We can meet you back here two hours after sunrise," this part he did need to secure just now – he didn't know where the boy was camped (and couldn't ask because then the boy would never sleep), and so had no way of finding him, or of knowing that he wouldn't flee in the night. He needed his word, at the very least, that he would find them again.
The boy looked unsure, which Jet had expected. He realised at the last second that he'd forgotten an important detail, one that the boy, of course, wouldn't simply expect: "We'll pay. Don't worry about it."
And the guarded look came back again. "And in exchange?" That constant question, untrusting, still waiting for the other show to drop. And Jet had to ask for something, or the boy would just think he was hiding his intentions.
Jet hated trying to think of things he wanted from the boy when all he wanted was for him to be safe. But, so far, being completely honest with him had worked best. "You could think about my offer. Joining us? Giving it a shot, at least. We're headed to Ba Sing Se, you could come with us."
The boy shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know if Ba Sing Se is the best place for me."
"Then we'll help you get to wherever you should be."
Jet knew he'd misstepped when he saw the momentary heartbroken expression on his face, before he covered it with a scowl. "That… That's not an option."
Jet was tempted to say something about having lost his own home to the Fire Nation, that he understood what must have happened to him; that finding where you belong isn't necessarily about going back to where you came from, but which could be about finding somewhere new to call your own. He would have said exactly that, but the boy spoke again before he could start.
"I'm not sure that you want me anyway – I could be anyone. I could be dangerous."
"I know that you're dangerous, that's part of why I want you," Jet tried to joke, but the boy showed no reaction. "I'm only asking you to think about it. You don't have to tell me your answer if you don't want to." When the boy looked unconvinced he reduced his ask, reluctantly. "What about just to the next town? We try it out, you don't have to commit to anything. All I'm asking for right now is for you to still be here tomorrow. We can sort the rest out later."
The boy stood straight, examining Jet for a long moment. He turned his eyes – or was it just eye for him? Would he need them to cover that side? – behind Jet to his friends, looking for some sort of… something. Honesty. Safety. The potential for what Jet was offering.
His eye(s?) returned to Jet's. He gave a short bow, his hand making an odd, fumbled gesture that he gave up on halfway through. (A history in nobility? It would explain the formal sword training.)
"I will be here tomorrow two hours after sunrise. I will think about your offer. On my honour."
He showed them his back for what must be the first time, and left without another word, his ostrich-horse following behind him.
It was a start. A pretty good one, all things considered – he couldn't have asked for his first crack of the kid to have gone much better, not with him being the way that he is.
He had his foot in the door. He could go from here.