Mushi
He wishes Mushi were here.
Not "Mushi" Uncle, the real Mushi—well, Zuko knows Mushi wasn't his real name either; the pseudonym was the inspiration behind Uncle's new name, the first thing that had come to mind. The Wani's cook had a convoluted past that didn't lend well to ranks and titles and not getting thrown in prison for… whatever his crime had been. Uncle trusted him, and he made the best lemon komodo chicken, and that was all that mattered on a ship full of failures and outcasts.
(A ship that ended up at the bottom of the artic sea. One last grand failure to end them all.)
(He can only hope that Mushi and his crew didn't share the same fate, but he doubts he'll ever know.)
Regardless, Zuko shouldn't have taken Mushi for granted. Or, at the very least, should have paid an ounce of attention to how the man worked his magic. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't be trying to scrape crusted sauce off the bottom of their singular frying pan for the third time tonight.
"Maybe we should order take-out," Uncle says, not-so-subtly waving the smoke away from his nose.
"I can do it," Zuko snaps—both his voice, and the bamboo spatula in his hand. Fantastic. Just one more thing to fit into their budget, unless he can somehow glue the handle back together.
For now, he settles for gripping the flat end and scraping the rest of the burned gunk out the window.
"You don't have to, Nephew. We could make lentils, or rice—"
"I'm sick of rice!"
The tiny cookfire flares up, searing the bottom of the pan. His eyes widen as he rushes to shut the window—it traps the smoke in the room with them, but better that than someone outside seeing his uncontrolled firebending. Jet may be gone, but there's no telling who else might throw them to the Dai Li.
His hands shake as he sets the empty pan over the now-dying fire.
"Rice… sure," he mumbles, clenching and unclenching his fists.
He wishes Mushi were here. But Uncle's rice is better than nothing.
