It was late morning when Iroh came to a difficult decision. He was simply going to have to wake her up. Seven years of daybreak drills in the United Forces meant he'd already been up for several hours. He'd done some exercises, gone for a run, eaten, packed up most of the campsite, and even refueled the plane the way Asami had shown him. They'd have to leave soon if they were going to keep on schedule, but it was becoming clear that Asami was not a morning person.
He walked over to Asami's sleeping bag. She'd burrowed deep in the bag against the chill, and all Iroh could see was a tousled pile of black hair. He walked in a slow circle, thinking. He was not looking forward to this part. He'd once been burned rather badly after trying to wake his little sister for her lessons, and the memory made him cautious. Although she wasn't a bender, he knew Asami was stronger than she looked, and a capable fighter. Not to mention the owner of a rather unpleasant electric glove.
He cleared his throat, hoping that would do the trick. Nothing happened. "Eh. Miss Sato," he said, trying to keep his voice low. "Miss Sato? It's time to wake up." A small groan escaped from the bag. Hoping the danger of a surprise attack was over, he squatted down and tried again. "Miss Sato, we need to start moving." He leaned over her, reached out hesitantly, and gently shook her. Asami let out another low sound and the bag moved a little. He was about to shake her again when two enormous green eyes appeared beneath the cloud of dark hair. And Iroh realized that he'd never seen Asami Sato without makeup before.
He decided that he liked it. The lack of shadow made her dark eyelashes stand out, and there was a small spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. It didn't make her more beautiful, exactly, but it made her seem somehow more genuine. Accessible, maybe—the difference, he thought, between seeing a gorgeous woman at a party and that same woman, hair undone, wearing one of your shirts and nothing else. The thought made him feel oddly warm. Her green eyes, he realized, were flecked with gold.
Careful, Iroh, he thought. Asami Sato was what, 18? 19? He was on his way to infiltrate a war zone, against orders, with what he had to admit was a barely serviceable plan. He couldn't afford to get sidetracked.
"I hate you," Asami mumbled. Iroh grinned.
"Lucky for me, a hate-filled woman can still fly a plane. Come on, get up. I made you tea."