"Katara?"

She doesn't move out of the bed, still asleep. He's not quite sure what he expected from her — she always wakes up late, not with the sun like he does. Not that he sleeps much at all, but that's fine. He can sleep with her and admire her soft, calm features in the light of the morning. She's gorgeous, some sort of painting, something that is all his.

She might break if he pushes her too hard, if he jumps too fast, but that's fine. He can wait. He can be careful. He just wants to move her a little bit forward.

He frowns at her prone form and heats up one of his hands, slightly, and runs it across her spine. She moans and turns around, and he presses his fingers across her face, swiping up past her prominent cheekbones and her eyebrows. They're less sharp than they were a year ago, but they're still easier to see than they should be. It's funny that her beauty is so striking when her personality is . . . is not.

Whose fault is that?

"Katara," he pushes her forward again. Her eyelashes flutter, and a moment later she's looking up at him blearily, cloudily. His heart sinks but flies at the same time; he's not sure why. He's just not quite sure what he wants from her, whether he wants them to be clear or not, whether he wants her or not. He doesn't know. He doesn't know what fixing her means. But he will uphold that promise to Uncle; she will have the world. That's all he can give her in this life, the only unique part of him that he can hand over.

She doesn't know that, probably wouldn't care. Her mental energy is caught up in her own mental anguish, and she lets him do what he wants, but he wants to do what she wants, and it is . . . so, so confusing. He is so lost.

Katara stares at him and lifts out her hand so that her fingers fall on his lips. They don't press on him, exactly — just graze across them before they descend back to the red bedclothes. He grabs them and raises them back to his mouth, kisses them before keeping them firmly against his warm cheeks. He can't tell if the blush is due to him or his midmorning heat.

"Hey," he says softly, closing his fingers over hers. She doesn't move, of course, but he thinks that her expression might relax back a little bit. "We're going to go see a healer today, again."

In a quick flip her expression turns almost panicked, and she tries to turn over, but he stops her, placing his other hand on her shoulder. He knows what's wrong. "Don't worry. They're not Fire Nation. They're from the Northern Water Tribe. Do you know the Northern Water Tribe?"

Her breathing evens out, and he lets go of her shoulder and moves to sit sideways on the bed, running his fingers through her knotted hair. She's so, so beautiful. He knows what the problem is — or rather, he knows it exists, though not the cause. Katara hadn't responded well to the first healers he'd brought her to, particularly the ones that had been slightly intrusive. He has his own physicians for menial things, but her soul, stuck in her mind, is a different beast. At first they'd gone to regular healers, and then he'd frequented apothecaries — the same ones his mother used to, for her own reasons — and then, last month, he'd taken her to the Fire Sages. They'd met in a room full of fire, and she'd turned utterly helpless in his arms, more so than usual. Her limbs had stopped working and her body had simply fallen apart, laying limp. For a second, then, he'd thought she was dead.

He didn't think he could fear much after all the death and destruction he'd witnessed and wrought upon the world, but he'd felt utterly helpless then. Azula was in Ba Sing Se, and Mai was in Omashu, but Ty Lee and her bubbly personality had been at the North Pole that week, and he'd written to her and asked her to bring back their best healer. And so she had, a woman named Yugoda. She'd seemed rather excited about it too, showing him the old woman as though she was a child. He'd ignored her and placed her in the servant's quarters. Normally Katara would meet with a healer much more often than a month in, but he'd been scared of losing her after the last episode.

"She's a waterbender," he tells her. "She'll help you."

Katara blinks but doesn't seem terribly enraged, and he calmly helps her out of the bed, reaching down to kiss her as she places a hand on his waist to keep her balance. He loves her so — so much, in a way that's so unquantifiable, so raw, and yet so delicate.

He's going to fix her. It can only get better than this. He will love her no matter who she is. "I have to go to a meeting," he tells her, because he always does. "But I'll get one of your girls in and you can get dressed, okay?"

She blinks, but he presses his mouth to her again, and she returns the force a little bit, in a way that makes it terribly difficult for him to stay away. He leans in to her and almost drops her onto the bed before remembering himself and smoothing out her hairline again. "Bad girl," he teases. Nothing happens. Nothing happens — maybe she blushes, a bit, but nothing happens.

He opens the door up for the lady that has been waiting outside to come in and goes to the war room. Azula has sent him a missive about a revolt in one of the colonies that she wants to personally burn down, but he can't let her do that. He knows a little about public image. His ministers twitter as his flames stay uncontained, and eventually they decide to relocate one of the forces on Kyoshi Island to the colonies. The warriors there are scattered, as it is. Just a bunch of little girls — but he knows his own share of little girls, and he knows what they can do.

He's eighteen. He's too young for this. He's too —

His breath stutters out into gasps as he walks back to his rooms to receive Katara, and small flickers of flame move around his arms and legs, cause him to sweat until he turns unbearably hot. He can't do it. He's losing control. He's losing control. He won't hurt her, though, so he thinks about her blue eyes and the way she turns red when he kisses her and moves inside to pick her up from their adjoined sitting room, where she's laying on the couch, limp. His heart thuds again, heavy in his chest — but she's okay. She's fine.

He reaches for a side cabinet and pulls out old scrolls, ones from her last general physician's appointment. They haven't seen one of those in ages, and he wants to refresh himself on the meal plan the kitchens insist she sticks to and the small herbs she has to mix into tea. He knows she takes them every morning with her breakfast. He grabs them and places them at his other side, across from her. He doesn't know what the quiet old woman, the healer, will want from them.

The royal healing wards, the quarters, are prepped for their arrival. The area, full of sickness, smells almost clean and sterile, and it's decently far from their usual quarters. It's been this way since the founding of the palace, to ensure that those who are struggling with the weaknesses of the body are kept far away from the unbreakable royals. But nobody discusses the evils of the mind which have corrupted the bloodline. Compared to Azula, Katara is an easy story, straightforward — a victim of circumstance, not blood.

A victim.

An old woman meets them at the door and pulls them through a series of hallways and doors. Katara slinks away at his side, as though she wants to back away, and he presses his hand to her spine, trying to heat himself up without sparking. "Don't touch anything," he says conversationally, as though she would speak, as though she would — would touch. She doesn't acknowledge that, but perhaps she moves into his warmth.

The healer's room emits a strange glow, and when they walk in Zuko finds it somewhat reminiscent of one of Azula's spas. And yet it is also different — a deep pool of water takes up half of the room, and it is lit by the grates underneath it. A woman stands at its edge, old and drawn, her fingers running the liquid through her fingers. It's fascinating — to think that Katara could do that — and he'll have her do it, again.

To heal, of course, is an important skill. It's something he knows she would love to do.

"She doesn't know combat," the servant calls as she lets them in, respectfully bowing and leading them both to a bench in front of the healer. "Besides, the Fire Lord can defend himself."

"Of course. Dismissed. Close the door."

The woman nods and the door closes, leaving him alone with two waterbenders in a dark, glowing room. Both are broken because of him —

That does not matter. "Yugoda," he says. The woman lifts up her head and stares at him, her eyes hollow. It's unsettling, but he's seen worse. He's seen the Avatar's death, and he's killed plenty himself. What's one more monster? And for a good deed, at that.

Her eyes fall on him first. "Fire Lord Zuko," she spits in a way that's between angry and incensed and tired. He couldn't care less. But then she moves to Katara and gasps, deeply, as though she's hallucinating. "Kanna?"

"Who's that?" he frowns. "This is Katara." Katara is at his side and she's gazing at the pool, silver, somewhere, pooling into her eyes. "Katara, my —"

"Your waterbender," Yugoda shakes her head. "Perhaps — that does not matter. It's been heard that the Fire Lord took a waterbender. I didn't —"

"I don't care what you think," he says, thick. "This is Katara," he lets his hand graze her shoulder, and she slides near to him as his body heat skyrockets. "She used to be able to waterbend, but she can't anymore, and I need you to help her."

Yugoda's expression, at first haggard, softens as she spends a moment taking in Katara's hazy look, the way she curls against Zuko and stares out into nothing. "I do not want to help," she says simply. "I will not help the Fire Nation."

"What does that mean?" Zuko snaps.

Yugoda looks forward. The water in her palms, the streams that had been running through her fingers, have fallen to the ground. "Poor girl. You have destroyed her."

"Katara is fine," he says, defensively, pulling her close and close until she's on his lap, against him. The papers lie, forgotten, on the floor. "She's fine. She just needs her bending back. Help her."

The old woman shakes her head, at first lightly and then violently, side to side. Her fingers lift up from the water and she presses her hunched back to the chair, blue eyes wide. "I feel pity for her, but I will not help the Fire Nation. I will not help the Fire Lord," she repeats, as though crazed. "I am not going to help the Fire Lord — "

Katara feels limp again. He doesn't like that — it feels so unfamiliar. He knows she's alright, but he wants her to get her bending back. He wants her to be a person again, and he knows that bending is the first step towards that — why is the universe conspiring against him? He wants to scream, maybe level the room, but he can't do that. He takes in a deep breath and attempts to center himself and then prove his losses. "Do it for her," he starts sharply, but then his voice breaks. "Or whoever Kanna is, for yourself. Please. Help her."

Zuko takes Katara into his arms and leans forward as to present her to the old woman, who looks at the both of them with pity and fear. "I will not fix something you have broken, Fire Lord. You do not deserve peace."

He has peace. He has everything.

It's as though she's looking into his soul. "Whatever she can give you, you do not deserve."

He and Katara can love each other. He loves Katara, it's the only thing he knows, and he wants her to love him. He wants Katara to love him. He and Katara can love each other. He loves Katara. He loves Katara. Katara can love him. She can.

Zuko wants to burn something down but he doesn't — he just leaves the old woman there in her corner, with her losses, because she will regret what she has just done — she will — she will —

He carries Katara in his arms all the way back to their rooms, through the palace, dressed in her red silks against their bed. Some days she is like this, so not here, so nonexistent.

He hopes she will not remember this one, not remember the old woman's eyes or her betrayal. She deserves better. He does not want her to know.