Warning for general unpleasantness

"Are you listening to yourself?" Zuko blanched at Jet. "There is no way in hell that McGregor would win against Mayweather. No way. You're delusional,"

The elevator was a little too narrow for both of them to walk through at the same time, but they pretended not to notice that they were smushed shoulder to shoulder, hands brushing as they walked.

"I'm not sayin' that I would necessarily want McGregor to win, that dude is a major asshole, but I think he has just enough of the crazy in him to stand a shot,"

"I'm sorry, but your logic is flawed," Zuko shook his head.

"Please, I have been watchin' boxin' since before you were born," Jet scoffed.

"Jet, you are six years older than me. It's not like that gave you more of an advantage. I bet you were still watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,"

"Excuse you," Jet pretended to be hurt, but the smile was too hard to fight. They were still walking pushed up together as if the hallway was shrinking on them. It was not. "But I watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles last week,"

"Are you telling me that you have the same maturity level as a six-year-old? Because I will not argue with you about it,"

Jet boomed out a laugh, standing close enough to Zuko that he could feel the vibration of it from where he stood. It made his stomach tingle.

His laughter paused in his throat when they made it to his apartment, his demeanor changing in an instant.

"What?" Zuko asked, glancing around the charming hall.

"The door is open," Jet whispered, gesturing to the cracked open door.

"What?" Sure enough, the door was open.

"Oh my god, did someone break-in?" Zuko whispered.

"Shh," Jet took a step ahead of him and swept him behind his back, pushing him closer. "Stay behind me, do not move; do not make a sound. Get out your phone and call the cops,"

With shockingly steady fingers, Zuko pulled his phone from his back pocket and started dialing the police. It had been two weeks since the stalker had hit Jet with his car, two weeks without any contact with him of any kind. And now this.

The massive brass statue of a praying Taoist monk that sat on a table by the door fits nicely in Jet's hand. Zuko was whispering something into his phone as they crept into the foyer.

Something pressed into Jet's other hand, and he glanced down, recognizing the tube of pepper spray that he had given to Zuko weeks earlier. He had no idea where Zuko had stashed it up until that point, but he couldn't care about that right now.

All of the lights were on, and Jet wished that they weren't. He didn't want Zuko to see it all.

Top to bottom, the apartment was trashed. Books from the tightly crammed cases laid scattered across the floor, stomped on and ripped up. Vases smashed, lamps tipped over, tables flipped.

Jet stepped over the tattered remains of a complete encyclopedia set, Zuko close behind him.

Cold fingers wrapped around Jet's belt, knuckles pressed into the small of his back.

Rage filtered through him. He hated this scumbag before, but oh how he hated him right now. For making Zuko scared. For ruining his house. All of it. He wanted him to burn.

The scratching noise coming from the bathroom had both of them whirling. Jet swore under his breath, sparing a glance at Zuko. He was paler than a sheet, but he was fine.

A low, impatient whine came from behind the door, and Zuko cried out.

"Oh my god, the dogs," He scrambled towards the door and wrenched it open.

Smellerbee and Longshot tumbled out, hackles raised.

Smellerbee looked remarkably similar to when Jet first saw her, scared and mouth wrapped in thick black lines of electrical tape.

Anger was no longer a sufficient word to describe the liquid wrath that overwhelmed his body.

Zuko choked back a sob as he fumbled to get it off of her mouth, peeling ever so gently from her snout.

Zuko sat on the floor, angrily dashing away tears, tape clenched in his white-knuckled fist as Smellerbee gave him a maternal kiss to the cheek before standing next to Jet, ready to go with him. She hadn't been concerned about the tape at all.

Together they pressed onward into the rest of the apartment.

Jet found Zuko a few minutes later, holding his violin like a wounded animal, curled up by his piano.

Smellerbee had searched the whole house with him, her astute nose scouring everything, but the man must have left before the two of them came home. Other than the small patch of hair on the top of her snout missing, she was okay.

"Did you touch anythin' else?" Jet sighed, pocketing the pepper spray.

"No," He then nodded to the statue still clutched in Jet's white-knuckled grip. "Could you put the Daoshi back, please? He wouldn't be very pleased with you if he found out that you were going to use him for violence," He mused, voice flat and face emotionless.

Jet walked back to the door and set the statue down, patting it on the head for luck before walking back to Zuko.

"You need to come to see your bedroom,"

Zuko gave him a withering look.

"Please don't make me,"

"He has pictures. I just thought I should warn you,"

"He already took pictures. He already broke into my house; he hurt my dogs and tried to run you over. What else can he do? What else could I possibly care about that he could take away from me?"

Jet squatted down next to him and carefully took the violin from his fingers and set it on the stand. The neck was broken, and all of the strings snapped. The bow was currently impaling the couch.

"I know. I'm so sorry that this happenin', Zuko, I truly am. I wish I could make it all better,"

Reaching out, Jet cupped his cheek in his palm. He had never touched the scar, never had a reason or a chance. Zuko sighed into his touch, closing his eyes. Jet's thumbs stroked under his eye, feeling the tight smoothness of the burn.

"What are the pictures of?"

~0~

The detective was kind enough not to let every investigator that had rushed to the house look at the pictures—scattered over the bed and onto the floor, stabbed into the walls with pencils and pens. They were everywhere.

The words "I AM GOING TO KILL YOU" were scratched into the drywall. Looking at it made Jet see red. He wanted to wring this bastard's neck.

The bed had been laid in. It was pretty obvious. Clothes were taken from the meticulously organized and fastidiously pressed closet and laid about too. From the way that they were wrinkled and that some of the underwear had wet spots on them, it was clear that they were worn and used.

Jet had told Zuko what the pictures held, and he had decided that he would trust Jet's judgment on this because he didn't want to see them.

He sat on the couch. Now alone that the dog walker had agreed to look after the dogs for a while. He answered every single question in a clipped, tight-lipped sort of way. Jet's heart ached for him.

The detective made his way through the bedroom, the forensic photographer had moved on, and the woman putting things in bags was making her way behind him.

"Do you know who the other man in the photos is?" Barron asked, looking at the three worst pictures that were stabbed above the headboard.

"No idea," He replied, not able to look away from the pictures.

The photos from before were intrusive; these were violating.

A sliver of shame worried its way into Jet's gut as he pored over the pictures again. He had pictured Zuko like this a few times. When they had kissed a week ago, he had envisioned it. When he was alone, the thought had crossed his mind. But seeing photos of him with someone else, snapshots of such a private, intimate moment, it infuriated him in a way he had never felt. The fury was not something that he had expected, and it was harder to tamp down than he thought.

He reminded himself, practically every three days, that Zuko was not his to have, only protect. He was his own person, and he didn't belong to Jet or anyone. He could do whatever he wanted, and from these pictures, he could do whoever he wanted too.

"Has Zuko taken a look at them yet?" Detective Barron asked.

"No. I couldn't bring myself to make him come in here,"

The detective nodded.

A few minutes later, Jet was sitting down next to Zuko, watching his face while he looked at the photos from the forensic camera. He wanted to touch him again, to give him some sort of reassurance that it would be okay, somehow.

He pressed his knee against Zuko's, an innocent enough action that it wouldn't arouse suspicion.

"Who is that guy?" The detective asked, an unexpected tenderness in his voice. He was taking no joy in this, either. Jet was strangely thankful.

"A guy from a club," He responded, face betraying no emotion.

"His name?"

"His name is irrelevant. It's not him,"

"We can't be certain on that, Mister Agni,"

"Mister Agni is my father," Zuko snapped, his eyes churning magma. "I am not my father. The man in the photographs is not the stalker, and I know this because not only is he a resident of Switzerland, he is also on the Olympic Ski team. And for his safety as well as my own, I will not tell you his name,"

The detective's eyes went a little wide before he nodded.

The rest of the night was full of questions and bland officers, phone calls, and people trailing in and out of the apartment.

By the time that the two of them had a moment together that wasn't surrounded by people, it was well into the night.

"I'm really sorry that you had to look at those pictures," Zuko said, eyes fixed on the chandelier halfway torn out of the ceiling.

Jet shrugged.

"My buddies show me those sorts of pictures for fun. I'm used to it,"

"Your friends are disgusting," He retorted, hands twisting around each other.

"That they are," He settled back down next to Zuko on the couch. He let the dent that Jet's body made in the cushions pull him into the bodyguard.

"I understand if you want to quit. All of this is more than I thought it would be," he mumbled into Jet's shoulder.

"You honestly think that this son of a bitch is going to drive me away?" He glanced down at Zuko, whose head was resting on his chest.

A faint memory of a smile stretched his lips.

"No. You won't leave until you get to choke that rat out, right?"

"Absolutely right," Jet grunted.

Zuko ran his index finger over Jet's scarred up knuckles a few times before whispering, "What now? What do we do now?"

"Remember when I said that we would see what Canada was like this time of year?"

"You were serious?"

"I have not, nor will I ever lie to you about your safety. Yes, I meant it. And I still do. He's not playin' around, Zuko. He says he wants to kill you, and I'm not waitin' around to see if he means it,"

"Okay," he murmured.

"And we also need to take a moment of appreciation that you smashed someone that is in the Olympics . I feel like that needs a separate party or somethin'. Who knew you've got game," He nudged Zuko's shoulder, pressing down the jealousy. Oh, what an ugly head it has and rears it often.

"Oh god," Zuko snorted. The snort turned into a chuckle that turned into a laugh, and soon he was a mess against Jet's chest.

Just as he had expected, it soon dissolved into tears.

Jet held him against his chest as he cried, fists grasping great handfuls of Jet's shirt.

As much as he wanted to go out and find this rotten sewage of a human being, his only priority was keeping Zuko safe.

And that is exactly what he was going to do.