Zuko arrives at the galley feeling unsure of himself. "I am the commanding officer," he reminds himself impatiently under his breath. "I have every right to be here." But he still feels awkward, standing in the empty mess staring at the galley door. What did he come here to say again?

Right: breakfast. Plain jook. Supply chains. Uh… better food? Something like that. He can figure out the exact wording on the spot.

The longer he stands here the more it'll look like he's a coward, so he draws himself up and pushes through the door without thinking any further.

The galley is one of the few places he hasn't been yet on the ship. He takes it all in with interest. It's cramped, as most spaces on the Wani are, but surprisingly bright and orderly. There's only a single aisle, lined with metal countertops and cabinets and various pieces of equipment that Zuko doesn't recognize. At the end is a closed door.

"Hello?" Zuko calls out, then immediately curses himself. That's not what a commanding officer sounds like. But he never found out which crewmember to expect, and he's not about to do a full role call. What's the protocol here? His uncertainty sparks irritation—at himself, and by extension the situation.

Before he figures out what to do next, the door at the far end swings inward and someone backs into the room. Their arms are full of three stacked boxes piled above their head, plus a single wilting cabbage wobbling precariously at the top.

Zuko darts forward just as the cabbage begins to roll. He snatches it from the air with both hands, snapping: "Careful!"

"Eh?" The person slides their boxes onto the nearest counter and turns to face him. They're a middle-aged woman slightly taller than Zuko, with a sturdy build and black hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her left eyebrow is raised, but at the sight of Zuko the right eyebrow lifts as well. "Oh. Prince Zuko."

Frowning at her, Zuko shoves the cabbage into her hands. "You dropped this," he says unnecessarily. "You shouldn't carry so much next time."

She doesn't bristle at all, like most of the crew seems to do when Zuko provides helpful suggestions; she just nods and says, "Maybe. It's usually fine, though." She turns to place the cabbage into a deep sink on the other side of the aisle. "General Iroh told me to expect you, sir. I understand you want a cooking demonstration."

Zuko takes a step back in surprise, then clenches his fists defensively when he realizes his show of weakness. "What?" he barks extra-sharply, to save face. "No I don't!"

Now the woman frowns. "But that's what General Iroh…" Her lips purse, and she taps her fingers against the metal counter. "I must have misunderstood. My apologies," she corrects herself stiffly. "How may I assist you, sir?"

Though nowhere near as adept at court politics as Azula is, Zuko is trained enough to realize Uncle's word is on the line here. And he knows the crew respects Uncle, maybe even likes him. If Zuko were to ruin that…

"Well, it's not that I don't," he begins, flailing for a grip on the situation. "I mean, I didn't really think about—well, I was thinking about cooking, but not really a—Uncle probably meant—" Zuko forces himself to a halt, glaring down at the floor. It's a really clean floor.

"I would appreciate a demonstration," he eventually grinds out, ashamed at the heat he can feel reddening his cheeks. His progress towards a respectable reputation is not going well today. "Crewwoman..?"

"Cook, sir," she responds simply, already opening the boxes on the counter.

Zuko chooses to look past her insolence in turning away from him. No one else is around to see it, anyway, and he's always hated that rule. Ever since that time when he was seven, when, as a punishment for something he no longer remembers, Zuko had been forced to kneel stockstill for an hour under Father's steady gaze. The hour had started over every time he fidgeted.

He shakes off the ghostly ache in his knees, shoving the memory aside. "Cook?" he echoes belatedly.

"That's what they call me, sir."

It's unorthodox, but then, maybe the position of cook is a bit of an exception. Sort of like the ship's doctor, which is a respected, important role for the specially skilled. Does cooking require special skills?

"What are you going to show me today?" Zuko asks, curiosity overcoming his confusion at the situation.

"I'm preparing lunch, sir." Cook pulls out a sack of rice from a box. Of course.

"Are we having anything but rice?" Zuko says, unimpressed. "Or is that all you're going to show me?"

Cook glances at him. "Do you already know how to cook rice, sir?"

He glares back and crosses his arms, refusing to answer.

Unfazed, Cook begins untying the sack. "Most of our current supply is rice, sir. We won't run out of it anytime soon. But we're low on fresh ingredients." She bends down and retrieves a huge cook pot from a cabinet. "I did inform Captain Jee, sir."

Zuko vaguely recalls Jee mentioning something about supplies the last time Zuko ordered a detour, cancelling their planned stop at a port. He decides not to mention it. He's a prince—he doesn't have to explain himself to a cook.

"Well, what do we have?" he demands. "Because it's not healthy for us to just eat rice all the time."

Cook stares into her pot, eyebrows drawn together. "You're right, sir," she says blandly. "Unfortunately, we ran out of most vegetables and protein a couple days ago. Pretty much all that's left is rice and the emergency rations."

Zuko eyes the sink. "And a cabbage."

"And a cabbage, sir."

Zuko frowns a little more. Maybe he should have listened to Jee a little more carefully. But the lieutenant had backed down quickly when Zuko was loathe to stop for restocking—surely if the food circumstances were this bad, Jee should have been clearer?

"I'll get a report from Lieutenant Jee on our current course," he says decisively. "We should be close to a port by now, but I'll make sure we're headed there with all due speed." Zuko nods to himself, pleased with his plan. Having a clear-cut action to take makes him feel in control of the situation again.

"In the meantime, sir, I can at least show you how I cook rice," Cook tells him, sounding somewhat bored. "I usually make it two or three times a day, so I can practically do it in my sleep by now."

That sounds like it was a joke, but Cook isn't smiling, so Zuko's not sure. He hates not being sure. "Very well, crewwoman," he responds, falling back on formality in his awkwardness.

Cook hefts the opened sack of rice and hands it to Zuko without fanfare. She takes a step back, gesturing at the cook pot. "If you would like to do the honors," she says, "you can pour the rice out until I say 'when.'"

Zuko frowns down at the sack. It feels like maybe ten orfifteen pounds. "How do you get the right amount?"

"I could measure it, but I've done this so many times in this very pot that I don't need to anymore."

Something about that bothers Zuko, but he's currently very aware that he doesn't know enough to argue. So he just steps up to the pot—which is, irksomely, slightly too high to be convenient for his height—and tilts the sack over the rim. Grains of rice start pouring out, faster than he anticipated. Before he knows it, half the sack is in the pot.

"Woah—that's enough!" Cook says hurriedly.

Zuko tries to stop the flow of rice, but it's tricky with the edge of the sack flopping limply and spilling out more grains. In a panic, he yanks the sack out of the pot and rights it fully—too late. Rice scatters over the counter and across the floor. Frozen, the two of them watch as the spilled rice rolls around and rains down from the countertop.

Clutching the sack with both hands, Zuko stares down at the rice on his shoes, his mind blank for a tense moment of silence. Then the embarrassment floods in, red hot and painful. Anger follows quickly on its heels.

He looks up, already opening his mouth to say something—something scathing, something lordly, something that will make this not his fault—but his jaw just hangs open soundlessly as Cook turns away from him with a huff of laughter. She's laughing at him. Zuko's cheeks burn. He stares, disbelieving.

Cook strides to a corner by the swinging door, her back unprotected, as though she doesn't care that Zuko could strike out at her for this disrespect. Not that Zuko has ever struck a crew member. But he could. Other commanders would, and do, for less. The idea gives Zuko an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

Retrieving a broom, Cook returns and begins to sweep the mess from the floor. "It happens," she says lightly, as though it doesn't matter at all.

Still holding the (much lighter) sack of rice tightly, Zuko doesn't respond, unsure what to say. He's not supposed to make mistakes. He tries not to think about what would have happened at home if he had spilled something all over the floor. Wasting food, no less.

"We have plenty of rice," Cook continues, as though reading his mind. She sweeps her tidy pile into a shallow pan and dumps it into a bin. For the first time, her face has softened into something that could be called a smile. "No harm done."

Zuko just nods stiffly, not sure he really agrees but not about to argue. Carefully, he lets go of the sack with one hand to gesture at the counter. "What about that rice? Shouldn't that get cleaned up too?"

"Eventually," Cook agrees. "But we're about to cook on this countertop, so we'll probably get more things on it that will need cleaning after."

This, Zuko understands. It's just simple logic. "Maximizing efficiency," he says approvingly. "Very good."

Cook smiles at him again, for some reason, though this time her eyes crinkle with real humor. She doesn't respond, instead returning to the task at hand. "Next step is to wash the rice," she says, moving the pot into the sink and turning on the tap.

"Wash it?" Zuko wants to ask if rice is normally dirty, but that question sounds stupid in his head.

"To remove any leftover debris, and to improve the texture," Cook says, absentmindedly watching the water fill up the pot. She twists the tap off and plunges her hands directly into the pot, to Zuko's fascination. "Sometimes you want sticky, gummier rice, but for today we want to get rid of the extra starch on the outside."

"Starch," Zuko repeats. He surreptitiously rises to his tiptoes, trying to see what she's doing. Her arms are moving, and there's sloshing noises.

"I'm just moving the rice around with my hands, rubbing it against the pot. We'll have to dump the water and refill it a few times." Cook hefts the pot and tilts it into the sink. Water pours out, no longer clear but instead a strange, cloudy white.

"Is that the starch? The white?" Zuko asks, inching closer without realizing it.

"That's right." Cook rights the pot and starts the tap running again, then steps back and reaches for a towel to dry her hands. "Why don't you do the next rinse?"

Zuko hates this part. He feels like he's back in the training courtyard, preparing to mimic a new form after a rapidfire demonstration from his instructor. He never gets it right, unable to recall the exact foot placement, or the order of the steps, or the precise arm movements. He always messes something up, and thus begins the exhausting, painful process of learning.

But he's pretending for Uncle's sake that he wanted a cooking demonstration, and he can't easily refuse to participate now. Not after he already failed at the simple task of transferring rice from one container to another.

So he grits his teeth and steps forward, shoving his sleeves up to his elbows. He braces himself for failure.

"That should be enough water," Cook tells him. She's only half looking, busy pulling out a wooden board and a large knife.

Zuko shuts off the tap and places his hands in the water. It's a weird sensation, swirling the wet, hard rice through his fingers and between his palms. It's almost nice. He waves his hands around uncertainly, waiting for the inevitable correction to his form.

It doesn't come. Zuko keeps swishing the rice in the water, trying not to splash, watching the water grow cloudier. The rice follows his movements, whirling around in graceful arcs that are kind of nice to look at. He idly wonders if this is what waterbending feels like. Then he pretends he hadn't thought that. The only thing he should be thinking about waterbending is how inferior it is to firebending; he knows curiosity is practically collusion.

Cook looks up from one of the other boxes after a minute. "You can drain it now. Probably do one more rinse." Then she turns right back to whatever it is she was doing.

Unsupervised, Zuko nervously tips the pot like he'd seen Cook do, worried about spilling more rice. He can't get all the water out—a few grains slip out into the sink when he tries—so he just hopes that's okay and refills the pot.

The water doesn't cloud as much this time, but the feeling against his fingers is just as nice.

"Do I dump the water out again?" he asks. Rice needs water to cook, right? All that water allocated to rice in supply plans isn't just for rinsing, is it?

"Go ahead," Cook says with a nod, coming back over to the sink. It makes Zuko nervous to have her watching this time, but he only loses a few grains of rice, and she doesn't comment.

"Now we fill it with about twice as much water as there is rice." Cook doesn't move, watching the pot expectantly.

Aren't you supposed to be showing me how to do this? Zuko grumbles to himself. Not out loud, of course. This is kind of a weird situation, with him being her commanding officer and prince, but her being his impromptu instructor—it's messing with his understanding of the correct protocol here. He doesn't want to mess up Uncle's reputation, so he has to do a good job. That probably means not yelling at Cook.

Zuko turns the tap back on and lets the pot fill with what he guesses is the right amount of water. Cook gives him a brief nod, apparently approving.

"Bring it to the stove here," she says, pointing to the spot she wants.

Zuko hefts the pot carefully. It's a lot heavier now, and he's wary of the water spilling over the side. Taking small steps, he gets the pot onto the stove without any mishaps. A minuscule accomplishment, but Zuko feels a tiny flicker of pride nevertheless. This cooking thing isn't going so terribly.

Then Cook says, "Go ahead and light the burner."

Zuko stares at the stove, his heart sinking to his boots. His cheeks are warming again, a frustrating reaction that he hasn't learned to suppress yet.

"How do you usually light it?" he asks, thinking quickly. Maybe she'll show him how she does it?

She shrugs casually. "Matches. But might as well save supplies, eh?"

Zuko nods numbly. "Very practical, good," he mumbles. Then he stares at the stove some more. With every passing second, his dread grows, until he feels like he's suffocating in it.

Finally, Cook speaks. "Sir?"

She hasn't addressed me properly for a while, Zuko notes distantly. He briefly considers derailing the situation with a lecture, but then, he hadn't reprimanded her appropriately as soon as she dropped the "sir"s, so it's sort of his fault anyway. And now he's just stalling.

Zuko lifts a hand and switches his gaze to his fingertips. It only needs to be a small flame. Tiny. Barely more than the warmth of sunshine or a tea cup. He can do that. He just has to draw the fire out and hold it steady. Keep it burning, but keep it from burning anything. Or anyone. Is it getting darker in here?

"Prince Zuko?"

A book of matches is shoved under his nose, barely visible through the dark spots in his vision. Zuko grabs it reflexively. He realizes he's holding his breath, and he gulps in a few deep breaths in an attempt to steady himself.

Cook says nothing, just waits while Zuko fumbles to open the matchbook. She's staring at his face, he can tell. Staring at his scar. Still painful and ugly and shameful.

He ignores her and pulls out a match with a shaky hand. A few months ago, he wouldn't have been able to remember the last time he held a match. It would have been before his firebending manifested, years earlier.

But now, his fingers handle the match with easy familiarity, despite how strangely weak his body feels. He strikes it against the matchbook and tries to hold back his flinch when the flame flares to life.

He lights the stove quickly. Uncle keeps a small burner in his rooms for making tea, and Zuko has seen him light it many times, so he knows how stoves work. Granted, Uncle always did it with firebending. Bending so small and simple, a toddler could do it. Bending as easy as breathing.

Zuko hasn't produced a flame since the day of his Agni Kai.

The match is still barely used up when he shakes it to extinguish the flame, but his fingertips feel like they're burning anyway. He lets out a slow breath that blows the smoke out of his face.

There's no way Cook doesn't realize what's going on. He feels utterly humiliated. How is he supposed to salvage this situation?

"What next?" he asks briskly, forcing himself to turn and meet Cook's eyes.

Her expression, to his surprise, is unreadable. Not disgusted or amused or pitying. She doesn't even address his ridiculous weakness, just looks back steadily and answers his question: "Now we wait for the water to boil."

"How long will that take?" How long until he can leave and never come back?

She turns, heading back to her boxes on the counter. "A few minutes. In the meantime we can slice the cabbage and prep the seasonings."

Zuko stays where he is, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wishes she'd just hurry up and say her snide comment or cruel jab or fake words of concern. He's heard it all. He heard it during that hazy, pain-filled time before he was taken to his new ship; heard it on every trip ashore since; heard it the couple of times Zhao has dropped by just to sneer behind pretty words—everyone has something to say about the scar, about his banishment. They keep finding new ways to say it, but it's all the same in the end.

"Wash the cabbage first," Cook calls, back turned.

That's definitely a new way to say it. Zuko frowns, confused. When she doesn't say anything else, he moves to the sink and starts the water. The sooner lunch is prepared, the sooner he can leave.

Cook directs him to place the washed cabbage on the wooden board. "Any experience handling a knife?"

"Yes," Zuko says truthfully, feeling a tiny bit pleased despite his darkening mood. He's continuously grateful for Uncle introducing him to Master Piandao years ago.

Cook raises her eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yes!" Zuko snaps, suddenly irritated.

"Alright, alright." She holds her hands up placatingly. "You can chop the cabbage, then. Small pieces. It's going to have to go a long way." She picks up the knife and goes to hand it to him, then hesitates. "Okay if I show you what I mean?"

Zuko crosses his arms and nods. The implication that he can't handle a knife is annoying, but he admittedly wouldn't have known where to start. Weaponry, attack and defense, he knows; cabbage, not so much. He watches closely as Cook quarters it, then chops one quarter into little cubes. She hands him the knife wordlessly and steps back.

Aware of her eyes watching his every move, Zuko does his best to mimic her movements. The cabbage is harder to slice through than he expected, and more than once the knife blade slips from the waxy leaves as he bears down on the handle.

"Here," Cook says, taking the knife back. "Hold the cabbage still with your fingers like this. It makes it harder for you to accidentally catch yourself if the knife slips." She doesn't sound exasperated at all, just matter-of-fact. And when Zuko tries again, moving his fingers into the unfamiliar position, she gives a nod that feels like praise.

Chopping the cabbage is kind of meditative. Slice, slice, slice, turn the cabbage, slice, slice, slice. Move the pieces aside and start again. Cook stops watching after a minute, and Zuko's left alone with his thoughts. He works slowly but steadily, enjoying the feeling of a blade in his hand and a straightforward task to be done.

It strikes him that it should feel demeaning, preparing food for his crew's lunch. Cooking isn't something a commander does, let alone a prince. But Uncle apparently thought it was a good idea, and Zuko does appreciate a lot of Uncle's advice. He just ignores most of it, is all.

No one needs to know Zuko visited the kitchens, anyway. He should remember to tell Cook not to tell anyone; the crew doesn't need any more reasons to disrespect him.

By the time he finishes with the cabbage, the rice water has begun to boil gently. Cook reduces the flame on the stove and puts a lid on the pot. Zuko is silently glad she didn't tell him to handle the stove again. "Now it cooks for a while longer, until the water's gone. And that's how you make rice." Cook says it with a little smile for some reason.

Zuko blinks at her. "Thank you for showing me," he says after a few beats. That sounds normal, right?

"It's something everyone should know how to do," she responds cheerfully, waving his words away.

"Is it?" Zuko furrows his brow, feeling on edge. "It was never part of my curriculum. The royal tutors would have taught me if it were so vital."

Cook's smile drops entirely, her face going blank again in a way Zuko doesn't like. "Of course. The royal family has much more important concerns than cooking. Sir."

"Yes," Zuko agrees automatically, but he's still mulling over her words, trying to figure out if he misstepped somewhere. Maybe it's rude to say her job is less important. Even if it probably is. His tutors wouldn't have left out anything important, not with Father testing Zuko regularly on his lessons; Zuko wouldn't have been the only one punished if it turned out he'd missed an entire subject.

"You said something about seasonings?" he asks eventually. Standing there in silence is making him antsy.

Cook shows him the ingredients she had laid out on the opposite counter. "I make my furikake from scratch. Easier to reuse ingredients that way."

"Smart. Efficient," Zuko says for lack of anything better. It gets him another eyebrow raise in response. "I like furikake," he volunteers, not sure why he's doing so.

Cook's face loses some of its stiffness. "Well, now you get to make your own. It tastes better that way."

"It does?" Zuko asks, skeptical.

"Sure does." Cook smiles. Zuko's pleased, though he wishes he knew how he'd managed that.

Cook points out the various bags and small boxes. "Salt, seaweed, sesame, bonito flakes, sugar. We pretty much just mix it all together."

Zuko picks up the box of salt. "How much?"

"However much feels right."

"Do you ever measure things?" Zuko grumbles half-rhetorically. He glares at the salt as though he could intimidate it into admitting how much to use.

"Only when I'm following a recipe," Cook says drily, tossing a handful of bonito into a bowl. "I like to cook with my heart."

That makes no sense at all, but Zuko has the good sense not to say so out loud. Instead he just tips the box of salt—very slowly, thinking of the rice mishap—and pours some into the bowl.

"A bit more," Cook says as she haphazardly dumps in a small amount of sugar. "And then you can crumble the seaweed."

The dried sheets of seaweed crack easily in Zuko's hands. He's eaten these plain before, as snacks when he was younger. Back before Father forbade him from eating outside official mealtimes. He wants to eat one now, in a sudden rush of spite and nostalgia, but he quashes the strange mixture of emotions and continues to prepare the furikake. The seaweed doesn't feel as nice between his hands as the wet rice did, but crushing sheet after sheet of it is still better than sitting alone in his quarters. He could get used to this.

"That's about right," Cook tells him eventually. She hands him a serving spoon to stir the mixture with. "We can keep this spoon in the bowl for everyone to use later. To be efficient." She gives him another small smile. Where are those coming from? Zuko is having a hard time predicting them.

"Right," he says awkwardly, hoping he's giving off more confidence than he feels. "Efficient. Very good." He casts around for something else to say. What had he originally come here for? His gaze lands on the chopped cabbage. "What do we do with that?"

"We'll throw it in with the rice when it's almost done." Cook starts packing the ingredients back into the bigger boxes. "I wish I could have shown you something more exciting today."

"But you said rice was important."

"It is," she agrees, "but it's also very basic." She pauses to eye him. "What's your favorite thing you've eaten on this ship so far?"

Zuko wracks his brain, trying to figure out the right answer. Is he supposed to flatter her and say he couldn't possibly choose? Or lie and say he's above such trivial things as favorite foods? Should he answer as a captain, or a prince, or a student?

A quiet laugh interrupts his thoughts. "It's not a trick question," Cook says lightly.

Zuko frowns at her. Every question is a trick question. But he'll go along with it this time and just answer at face value. "The grilled fish that one time with the fire flakes."

"Ah, that was a good one. Pretty easy, too, though you do have to clean the fish. I can show you how to make that once we have the ingredients."

"Why?" Zuko blurts thoughtlessly.

She doesn't bristle at the challenge, though, just gives another unbothered shrug. "If you're interested. You don't need to learn how, but cooking can be fun."

"Fun," he echoes, curious.

"Yep." Cook finishes closing up the boxes and starts stacking them. "Trying out new flavors, experimenting with ingredients. Making something good for people to eat."

"I see." He doesn't, really. All he's done today is make rice and mix some ingredients, following Cook's directions. But then he thinks about his crew sitting down to eat their lunch, a lunch he had a direct hand in producing, and a strangely satisfied feeling unfurls in his chest.

What would it be like to make something more complicated? To see Uncle's face light up when Zuko presents him with one of his favorite sweet treats made by Zuko's own hands? Maybe it could be a little bit fun. It almost makes him want to smile back at Cook.

"Of course, I wouldn't be able to show you the firebending techniques," Cook continues blithely. She's fiddling with one of the boxes, adjusting the lid unnecessarily.

Zuko stiffens instantly. He sucks in a quiet breath as his heart starts to beat faster. He should have known this was coming. He did know it was coming, but then he got distracted by the cooking and forgot to brace himself. Of course she wouldn't ignore his embarrassment, his greatest shame.

"There's some pretty great things you can do with firebending in the kitchen." Cook hefts the boxes into her arms, not looking at him. Zuko clenches his fists as she continues to speak, so offhandedly that it has to be fake. She must know every word is hitting home.

"Temperature control, of course, but also searing, flambéing… sugar work, even. I've been told it's a nice way to hone your bending, get really in touch with it."

Bending that he has lost. Bending that continues to evade him, despite his desperate attempts to regain his control over fire, even as he flinches still at every lantern and candle that comes too close. Bending that he should have, must have, can't be truly respected royalty without. And she's laughing at him.

Cook finally turns back to him, trying to shift the boxes off-center so she can see around them. "Maybe it could help—" She breaks off when their gazes meet. Her eyebrows lower and the corners of her mouth draw down. "What—"

Zuko can't stand it any longer. He decisively casts off the role of student and wraps his princely status around him like armor. "Very amusing," he sneers at her, fiercely glad that his voice comes out strong and cold. "I think you've shown me enough, don't you?"

"Prince Zuko—" Cook begins.

Trembling with anger and sick with shame, Zuko talks over her loudly. "That will be all, crewwoman." He lifts his chin and tries to glare her down. "There will be no mention of today's events to any other crew members. Am I understood?"

Cook shifts her weight, moving the boxes to her other hip. "Well, I—"

"Am I understood?"

She stares at him, eyes wide. He refuses to look away.

"Yes, sir." Her reply is perfectly appropriate. Quiet, respectful, obedient. So why doesn't he feel better?

"Good," Zuko says shortly. With that, he spins on his heel and stalks out of the galley. If Cook says anything else, he doesn't hear it.

He walks with his back ramrod straight and his knuckles white, face hot and tight. He doesn't stop until the door to his room is slammed closed and locked. His eyes fall to the sole lit lantern flickering dimly in one corner.

Then he can't hold in the whirlwind of emotions any longer. He lets out a wordless yell and throws a punch in the air, his anger growing when no fire emerges. He punches again, wildly, his forms abandoned. And again, and again, screaming out his frustration until his throat feels raw. The room stays dark.

Breathing hard, Zuko stares down at his hands. There's a fleck of seaweed stuck to one of his palms. He scrapes it off roughly, rubbing his hand on his pants until the skin is red.

He hadn't even finished making the rice.

Zuko crawls into his bed, curling up facing the wall. He lets his mind go blank, drifting aimlessly in his consciousness. The lantern casts shadows that move gently before his eyes. He watches quietly and thinks of nothing at all.

He doesn't answer the door when Uncle tries to bring him lunch.