Katara heals Zuko for the first time. (A companion drabble to day nine's 'Lock and Key')
DAY 14: ONE AT A TIME
She can't pinpoint precisely when the exchanges of vicious taunts start to feel more like teasing banter.
"That the best you can do?"
Across the clearing, Zuko's grin is feral. "Don't test me, waterbender."
And with a sweeping kick, he sends a burst of flame hurtling toward her feet, knocking her off balance. But she adjusts, shifting into a new stance and pulling most of the water from the nearby creek into a wave. It catches her, and she surfs it directly into the firebender's space, dragging him underwater. Katara smirks to herself before somewhere beneath her, the wave sizzles and dissipates, sliced in half by fire. She's sent tumbling, landing facefirst in the grass.
Next to her, Zuko coughs and splutters. "Again," he pants.
She rolls over, taking in his bedraggled appearance. "You look like a drowned elephant rat. Let's call it a night."
He scoffs. "If I'm the rat, then your hair is its nest."
In answer, she wraps one last water whip around his ankle and yanks for good measure. He topples over with a yelp and lands next to her in the grass, groaning.
He is closer than usual—close enough that Katara sees the dozens of both new and half-healed welts—some of them open, bleeding—littering his face and arms. One particularly nasty cut slashes right through his scar. And she's seen it all before, she has, but some part of her must have decided that tonight would be the night that she notices.
He catches her staring. "What?"
"Does it ever hurt? Your scar?" The words are out of her mouth before she realizes she's even thought them.
Zuko turns, angling the mangled skin on the left side of his face away from her. "We're not going to talk about that."
In a flash, he's on his feet. Hesitates for a moment, then reaches a hand out. He still doesn't look at her when she takes it and allows him to help her up.
"Thanks," she mumbles, but Zuko is already walking back toward camp.
Maybe it's the way the moonlight harshens the marks she left on his skin that compels her to call after him. "Hey, Zuko? Wait."
Zuko perches stiffly on a rock at the edge of the creek, eyes narrowed on the water gloving Katara's hands.
"We'll do this one at a time. Which one hurts the most?"
He shrugs. "It doesn't matter."
She can't suppress her eye roll. "Fine. We'll start with arms."
Without further preamble, Katara presses her hands to the pale skin of his forearm. Zuko flinches under her touch but doesn't quite pull away.
She seeks out his chi paths, breathes, and feels the skin begin to knit itself back together. Zuko is evidently unable to stifle a gasp, and she can't help the tiny smile that stretches her lips. An almost human reaction from the Fire Prince.
Katara shifts closer and slides further up his arm, brushing his hand with hers as he pulls the sleeve of his tunic aside. His taut muscles slacken under her touch, but the heat of his stare burning through her eyelids makes it rather difficult to concentrate on healing.
After making quick work of the other arm—most of the wounds are shallow and easy to mend—she quirks a brow at his tunic, a silent request that he remove it. Even in the dim evening light, the flush of his cheeks is in stark contrast with his pallid complexion as he slides the fabric over his head and tosses it aside.
Katara can feel the heat rising to her own cheeks when she calls new water to her hands and places them over the bruising on his stomach. She chances a glance at the firebender while she works—then bites back a laugh at the utterly awestruck expression he wears, face bathed in the blue glow of her healing hands.
It's intimate, this—healing another person—in ways she hadn't expected. Sure, she had healed a wound on Aang's arm that day he accidentally burned her all those months ago. But this—Zuko's heartbeat jumping under her touch, the contractions of his diaphragm, the synchrony of her movements with his body's pathways—was something else entirely.
When she reaches the welts along his neck, his throat bobs under her hands. And in the deafening silence, it occurs to her that he is utterly at her mercy.
She decides to break it. "Why do you do it?"
Zuko's voice is hoarse, eyes shadowed. "Do what?"
"Try to capture Aang—the Avatar." The words are conversational because it really doesn't matter why he does it. At least, it shouldn't.
But when it comes to Zuko, part of her believes that the why could be vitally important.
"Because I had to," he says simply. Katara doesn't miss his use of the past tense.
And while his explanation is likely anything but simple, she has the sense not to prod further. It will still be a few weeks until they reach Ba Sing Se, after all. She has time.
"I've never healed a face before, so just…hold still, okay?"
She thinks she sees him bite the inside of his cheek when he nods, amber eyes sliding shut.
With a steadying breath, Katara starts in on the good half of his face. He shudders when the icy water comes in contact with his skin but relaxes into her touch. His lashes flutter against his cheeks, casting shadows across the healing light.
It isn't long before she is pulling away again, gathering one last stream of fresh water. Sucking in a gulp of air, she slowly, gently presses a palm to the cut splitting his scar. A shaky sigh escapes his lips, his breath hot against her forehead.
"This okay?" she whispers.
He chews his lip. "Mm."
Even through the sheen of liquid, Katara can feel the ridges of the damaged skin beneath her fingers. The cut heals quickly enough, but she finds herself lingering. Maybe if she just—
"Don't bother. You can't heal it." The quiet resignation in his voice sends something like despair into the pit of her stomach.
Katara backs off entirely, putting space between them again. In the absence of his warmth, she notices for the first time that the night is cold. His eyes crack open, something unreadable flashing in them before he averts his gaze to pick up his tunic.
Without another word, they start back toward camp.
"I didn't get to your legs," she realizes aloud.
In her periphery, Zuko inclines his head toward her. "Tomorrow?"
She attempts to conceal her grin. "Tomorrow."
That night, as she slips into her bedroll, Iroh sends her a knowing look across the dying embers of the cook fire.