"You should start taking your swords with you to work," she mutters, and he just raises his eyebrow at her in return.
"I think that would make me more of a target than anything else. They should stay here. Like they have."
"Take a dagger or something, then," she says again, and he groans.
"You don't take a weapon with you."
"I work in the Middle Ring."
"Fine, I'll take a knife," he lets go, and she sighs even though she'd known he would give in to her. He always does; that is how they live, now. "I won't need it, Katara."
She lets the silence fall and cover them like a blanket. It's rather ironic, here, because his body still carries the vestiges of his legacy and runs hot all the time, like he has a fever. She dreads what would happen if he truly got sick, if she would burn when she'd touch him, if she'd have to use ice to cool him down.
"Better safe than sorry," she snaps, letting some of the memories loose before shaking her head and staring into his eyes. "I . . . keep the teahouse safe. We need the revenue and they're suspicious of you as it is . . ."
It works relatively well, the story they tell. It's carved beautifully and it fits into the Lower Ring so well — sweethearts running away from war, a refugee from the colonies and another from the Northern Water Tribe, wanting nothing but peace and a place to raise a family. They came here to find jobs and a small but decent place to live, to make friends and survive together, to simply exist. Their tale is similar to thousands of others and right now that is saving them. It helps that it doesn't always feel like a lie sometimes. Sometimes.
Still, Zuko's scar makes the other inhabitants of the ring a little off-put. She thinks some might remember the wanted posters from their towns and just pay them no heed. Nobody wants trouble, here. Nobody wants the Dai Li to come or to be attacked by radicals. They have escaped war and they want peace. There is no war in Ba Sing Se.
And, furthermore, they are aware that the scar painting his face makes him a victim. The others in the building do, the ones who run the market stalls do, the visitors to the teashop do.
She wonders when her life became this. It feels like this slipped into her being and became one with her, like she became this kind of person without realizing it. She's still Katara but she's also a wife and a resident of the Lower Ring and a refugee. It's so strange.
He just places his hand on her shoulder, seeing her blank stare for what it is and then pulling her into his chest. He smells like lychee nuts and jasmine. Funny, isn't it, that the Fire Nation's Crown Prince toils over a teapot for hours a day? She blinks against the fabric of his apron and then looks up to see the red outline of his face. His expression is contorted and angry, as usual. It always is. But his voice sounds calm and tight when he speaks.
"The raids will stop, it'll be fine, and the teashop is going great," he consoles like he knows that he has to be the strong one. She knows exactly when they switched roles. He pauses. "Did you tell the ambassador —"
She was dreading this. "I don't know, Zuko. He said that he can't give me the job back. There are too many applicants."
"You can't work while . . ."
"I know. But I can't quit. I shouldn't. I can't risk not getting it back."
He lets out a groan of his old frustration and she silently chastises him and puts a hand on his arm. "I'll do what I need to."
"You are not going to work while pregnant, you're not going to work after he's born, and that's final!"
Katara lurches away and stares into his face, the right side slowly turning the color of the left, his breath coming out in puffs of steam. She moves to the side and notices the curtain is ajar a little, looking out at the street below and the merchant's shop in front of them. She closes it even if it's threadbare. Nobody can see him like this. And then she stares him down until his breathing suddenly levels with the temperature of the air.
"I know you didn't mean that," she says pointedly. It's another way they work. He clutches his head and falls back onto their couch.
"I . . . I didn't. I'm sorry. It won't —"
"It'll happen again. But next time I'll kick your ass."
She wonders how this would have worked in another world; perhaps one where they weren't together just for convenience, where they didn't get married just because they had to, where they'd sleep together because they love each other, where everything fit. Not this world and not the things she wants to escape. He huffs out again.
"Just quit."
"We've had this conversation. You know I can't. I shouldn't. We're going to need the extra money."
"Work at the shop."
"I thought we wanted to 'diversify our income streams'," she almost teases but it doesn't come out that way, exactly, because they're adults now and living now and this isn't a joke. This is their reality. And they're about to have an extra mouth to feed. Children are expensive. She knew this.
"Well, yes, but the shop is doing well enough right now and we're going to need another server as it is. I can manage while you stay home and then you can go back to work full-time until you find something else. It'll work. It will," he says like he's trying to convince himself.
She doesn't want to agree but they're stuck behind a rock and a hard place; an analogy that's a little too apt. "Fine. But I'll stay there for a few more weeks. We need all the extra income we can get. You'll have to work overtime, anyway, I can help make the tea, at least —"
"I don't know what the fumes will do," he looks at her stomach. She's ventured closer to him, standing right in front of him, and he's facing the little bump. "I feel like . . . I don't want you to inhale any herbs or something. I don't want to risk anything."
"It shouldn't be an issue."
"It might be after a month or two," he points out before seeming to realize that he's getting angry again and calming down. "You can help with the baking. I'll bring some of the ingredients home."
"Fine," she mutters, sliding in next to him and putting her arms lightly around his prone form, moving his to touch their son again. "If you're going to be out and serving you better carry a knife."
"You'll have to carry one when you come back."
She looks at the closed curtains, at the three small rooms in their home. "We'll have to bring him with us. I think that would be better than spending money . . ."
"Yes," he murmurs. "I was thinking about that. I think that we could clear up one of Pao's old storage closets. He had a lot of random things in those crates. I could work on building a playroom of some sort . . . we could watch him without leaving him here. It's still a little too far away. We wouldn't be able to hear him."
She diverts and thinks. When she was younger she played with the younger children in the village, a chief's daughter, and he had rooms and rooms of his own, young royalty. And now he's going to build a room for his son in an old building's closet. She's appreciative, she is, but she does find it sort of hilarious before coming back to a reality that has his chin on her head. She can hear him thinking. "What would his playroom be like?" The ending is unspoken: otherwise. What did you expect?
His voice sounds almost distant. "A crib, you know, and a mobile above it with little dragons. There would be a fire in the hearth to ensure that he would have a connection with it. And then things he could chew on, small toys like stuffed animals."
"I could make him one."
"A stuffed animal?" he says against her head, and she nods. "Do you think you could make it a dragon? I . . . I want it to be somewhat . . ."
"I'll make two," she finalizes, understanding exactly what he means, "a dragon and a fish, I think. You'll have to draw out a dragon for me. I'm not quite sure what one looks like."
"I'm scared, Katara."
"You don't need to be," she whispers. "We'll be fine. We have our home and we have the shop and we'll have him . . . we'll be fine."
"What if he's a firebender?"
She closes her eyes, scrunches them together. "We have time."
"I don't want the past to come back."
"It won't."
AN: I swear this just wouldn't leave my head. It'll come back to what happened to everyone else eventually. And I will update this along with my other WIPs. It's pretty short.
This is inspired greatly by catie_writes_things's 'It Must Follow, As Night the Day' and 'Hopeless' by tullyblue12 on AO3. They both address this idea of Zutara living in Ba Sing Se to escape the war, and they're two of the best fics I've ever read. This is going to be brief and go in a much different direction. Please let me know if you feel like I'm inadvertently mirroring them a little too much, I really don't intend to and I'll fix it immediately. Thanks for reading!
— Dee