Zuko woke to pain in his neck.

The memories of last night (?) were fuzzy, and most of what he remembered was a feeling of safety incongruous with what little else he recalled. He didn't know where he was, but that irrational feeling of safety persisted even now, and despite his darkened surroundings. he felt comfortable enough to drift back to sleep.

Instead he deliberately stretched out his hands to feel what he couldn't see. Where there was no plush fabric, he felt only air, and concluded, naturally, that he was laying in a bed somewhere. The blankets were soft, the pillows firm, and he was comfortable save for the pain in his neck.

His thoughts didn't go much further than that. Some strange haze had drifted over his mind, the same sort of mental fog that came with exhaustion or deep relaxation. It felt good. Part of him wanted to rebel against it, sensing something limiting in the way his thoughts unravelled and dissolved, but that part was small and tired and easy to ignore. He turned onto his side, scrunched the pillow up beneath his head, and fell asleep in moments.

When he awoke it was lighter, and he could see the dark brown color of the blankets he was under. His sheets were a lighter color. He no longer felt the urge to close his eyes and drift away, but the mind fog was still there, and his thoughts still fell apart if he tried to take them too far, like he was trying to hold ice in his hands as it melted. Still there, too, was that irrational feeling of safety, like someone had wrapped up his soul in a blanket and set him in front of a roaring fire. He knew he shouldn't feel safe because…because…

He couldn't remember. His thoughts dissolved before he could get to the reasons, and so the feeling stayed.

A creak sounded from somewhere outside his room, making him raise his head to listen better. The bedroom was still empty, but something still made him sit up and watch the door, something scared and suspicious, the little part of him that fought against the heavy contentment. Years of fear and pain could not be undone so easily.

The door swung open.

"Hey, darling," his attacker greeted.

Zuko blinked, then sighed deeply in relief and tucked his knees under his chin, half-lidded eyes admiring the silhouette in the doorway as it moved into the room, gaining color and features as it moved into the room and onto the bed to tangle cool fingers in his hair. "How'd you sleep?" his companion asked, a little red running down his chin as he kissed Zuko on the forehead.

"Well," Zuko murmured as he leaned into the kiss. "I don't know your name."

"It's Jet, darling." He kissed Zuko's temple, mumbling against his skin, stroking his hair. The way Jet sprawled against his legs and nuzzled his face against Zuko's felt good. Like there was nothing to worry about. "And I already know yours."

"Mmm." He closed his eyes and relaxed into the touch.

Jet naturally obliged him, curling his body around Zuko's back and resting his chin on Zuko's head. "Don't worry, baby. I'm here. You're safe."

That…that felt good. It felt good to be safe.

That little critical, suspicious voice in his head was quieting.

It was…how long had it been? A couple of weeks, maybe, though he couldn't really say–he'd spent most of the time sleeping, feeding off of Jet, and staring at the wall as his mind worked at a slowed, listless pace. He hadn't yet left his room. He hadn't had the energy to move from the bed for as long as he'd been here, but now his limbs felt lighter and his body, while cool, no longer seemed like deadweight. It was easy to push himself up, easy to swing his legs over and stand, easy to push the door aside and finally explore this new apartment. The floor was wood, but well kept, and he didn't fear for his bare feet. The walls were unadorned. No scent floated through the halls, not like the palace. This place was new, but he knew it would be home, and he intended to make it so.

Something inside him had changed over the course of that time resting, like he had become an infant again, like someone had reached inside and plucked out all his worries and suspicions. It felt…not unpleasant.

He came out of the hall to see a little kitchen and living space hybrid, decorated in soft reds, with pillows strewn casually through the left half. A familiar figure knelt at the table, writing what looked like a letter. Jet. Zuko stopped in the doorway, leaning against it, watching graceful movements with a sort of fascination with the mere act of movement, with no symbolism or deeper meaning behind it. Like an infant indeed.

"Hey, darling," Jet greeted him, just like the first time he'd come in and curled up, just like every time after when Zuko found himself struggling with needs he'd been able to control easily as a human and Jet had worked magic on him. "You're up."

"I…guess." His voice was hoarse from disuse. His thoughts worked more, but they stayed very concrete, very grounded in what he could see and feel and hear. He remembered being good at the abstract, before–

Before.

He blinked, pushed the memories out of his mind before the bubble of pain could rise to the surface and pop. Jet beckoned him into the room and he followed, settling himself down on one of the pillows, focused on Jet and only Jet.

"I got you something," Jet mentioned.

Zuko didn't speak, only watched as Jet reached under the table and took out a bowl of pomegranate seeds. "I heard you like these."

"I do," Zuko said. He reached for one and delicately placed it on his tongue, savoring the taste. It was like he remembered from before. He took a few more and ate them.

"Snack all you want, darling," Jet said, "but remember, human food won't sustain you. You'll need blood."

Zuko blinked. Tried to think. "Blood?" His thoughts were trying to move through syrup. "I'll…need to hunt."

"Not right now, darling. I'll hunt for you. Just rest and feed off me."

"Mm." That feeling of safety was coming back again, wrapping him in warmth and sleepiness, weighing down his eyelids and lightening his soul. His energy was waning. Slowly he lowered his head into his hands, then onto the table, all the while focused on Jet writing his letter, watching his hands move with absolute precision and grace. Once or twice Jet paused in his smooth calligraphy to idly stroke his hands through Zuko's hair. Something in the back of his head whispered that this vulnerability meant danger, meant someone or something was going to attack you, meant that you could die if you kept your guard down too long—but the graceful fingers holding the brush promised safety and protection, and the hand that tangled itself in his hair promised a sort of love and adoration he had never quite had before. He wanted this sort of peace to last forever.

"You getting tired, darling?" Jet murmured.

"Mm." Jet's voice was sweet and soft, and Zuko found himself caught up in the ways it rose and fell and hummed in his ears.

"Can I walk you back to bed?"

"Yes, please."

Jet chuckled, laid his brush carefully down next to his letter, and slipped his hand into Zuko's. Even the way he stood up was magnificent. "Come on, darling," he said, tugging him up and letting Zuko lay his head on his shoulder as he slipped his arm around Zuko's waist.

He put Zuko to bed, quietly, peacefully, kissing his forehead and lying down beside him. Neither had any desire to go further. There was no need right now. They stayed on top of the blanket and simply existed.

And that was enough.

Zuko was getting restless.

It had been a few months since he'd first risen from his bed, and his energy had slowly been building until his sleep schedule had gone from sleep all day to somewhat normal, if nocturnal. The fog over his mind had gradually receded until he could think normally again. Jet had been bringing him new animals to feed off of–mice and racoons and other small things–weaning him off of the blood in his body and onto things he can hunt for himself. Neither he nor Jet could deny that he was growing up.

He sat on his bed, one of his knees jittering up and down with excess energy. Jet was out hunting. Zuko didn't know what to do–he'd always been with Jet before, or content with his own thoughts. So, naturally, he did the one thing he could think of. He stood up and wandered the apartment.

As he'd seen before, it was laid out in a traditional Fire Nation style, with wooden floors and unadorned halls. He passed the little kitchen/living area where Jet wrote his letters and ambled onto the balcony, watching the city below, looking over the lights and half wondering if anyone would notice if he hopped up to the roof to practice firebending. He wondered if he could even firebend anymore. Sleeping through the daytime would cut him off from Agni's power and his body no longer produced the heat it once had, and so his old abilities were in doubt.

He finally decided to do the deed, walking to the roof's edge and pulling himself up with a quick motion. A couple tiles came loose under his feet, but the building was old, and that was to be expected. The night air was cool on his face as he sat down. The caldera below was a constant source of steady low-level light, but he could still see the stars above him, a hundred constellations twinkling in the deep blue void. The sight calmed him for a minute.

But he still found himself restless.

Despite the old, unstable roof, he stood up and tried to get in a basic stance. He got it right, he was sure of it–but there was no chi priming inside him, no sudden heat that rushed through his veins. Maybe it was that he hadn't practiced in a couple of months. Maybe it was the lack of sun. Maybe it was the bite. Whatever it was, when he threw the first punch in the kata, absolutely nothing came out. Not even sparks.

If Father were here, he'd get a dressing-down. But Father wasn't here, and Jet wasn't a bender, and the fear he felt of his failure was so much less than before.

He tried a few more times, going through the whole kata slowly, but again and again no fire or sparks appeared. His bending was gone. For good? Did it matter? Did he care?

Just half a year ago, the answers to the last two questions would be yes and yes. Now, he really didn't know.

"Zuko?" a voice called from inside the house. Jet was home. "Where'd you go?"

"Over here!" he called back, hopping off the roof and landing perfectly on the balcony.

Jet was smiling at him, hands behind his back. "I have something for you. It should make up for you losing your bending." So he did know. "Here." He took his hand from behind his back and revealed a very familiar dao sheath, with two very familiar handles sticking out of the top end. "I stole it from your old room in the palace. The stuff for taking care of it's in the kitchen."

If he'd done it a year ago, before Zuko knew him (before Zuko had had another chance at childhood), he would have been suspicious, defensive, angry. But now and here he was flattered and delighted. He took the dao with familiar reverence and slung them over his shoulder, letting the friendly weight settle on his back, then slipped an arm around Jet's waist and nuzzled his face into the cool crook of his sire's neck. "Thank you. I didn't think I'd ever see these again."

He felt a little kiss on his jaw and a chuckle by his ear. "Darling. I know you too well for that."

Jet smelled of soap and conditioner, which smelled good on him, and Zuko stayed there a long time, drinking in the smell and touch of his sire. When he pulled away, Jet had his eyes closed, face displaying the same contentedness that filled Zuko.

Slowly Jet opened his eyes and tugged Zuko into the living room. "Maybe we can spar later," he mumbled. "But right now, let's just be."

It was a good feeling.