She lays in her bed after she wakes up, her body unmoving and her eyes fixed on the ceiling of her room. She usually does not have the luxury to remember her dreams, unless they are nightmares - and she would not call this a nightmare. She did not awake from it screaming, and the thought of it does not make her feel engulfed in fear or dread or horror. It does bother her, though; so much so that it replays over and over in her mind as she stares at the colour above her, a red deep enough to look like black after a while.

She was in the Crystal Catacombs, her hand pressed against marred, reddened skin. Zuko's skin. She ensured that her touch was gentle, careful, aware of how much the injury must have hurt before it became a scar, and felt a rush of pride at the fact that he was letting her, his enemy, touch it. Although it was only because she might've been able to heal it, and although it felt like leather against her fingertips, the act felt strangely intimate, as if she was skimming her hands along all of his hurt, soft and malleable, coiled under the mottled flesh. But suddenly, the patch of skin caught alight and he screamed, his voice raw and shaking, and began to beg her to stop. Looking down, she found fire filling her hands, the flames only becoming more powerful as he grew more desperate; they reflected her face, the image staring back at her wearing a malicious sort of smile and harsh, golden eyes - the eyes of Fire Nation royalty. His pleads for mercy became drowned out by her own voice, calling him a disgrace, calling him absolutely pathetic, repeated over and over like a chant. His cries did not cease until she woke up.

She did not do so screaming, nor does the memory of the dream elicit fear or dread from her; it does, however, create a kind of horror that writhes in the bottom of her stomach and clenches around the back of her throat. She wonders if she has ever reminded Zuko of his father - if she has ever bore resemblance to the man whose policy allowed her mother to be murdered. She tries to push the thought from her mind, but it refuses to leave.

She knows the dream is ridiculous. She has never hurt him physically in the way his father has, and she doesn't think she has hurt him very much emotionally; she doubts she has that kind of power over him. Besides, it's not as if he is particularly blameless when it comes to causing people pain - he hurt her when he used her mother's necklace as bait, when he betrayed her in the Crystal Catacombs, when his choice to side with his sister allowed for Aang's death. Any pain she has caused him is a result of her anger, which in turn is a result of the pain he has caused her.

Or perhaps she has caused him pain is retribution. She isn't sure if there's a difference, or if it would matter if there was. She does know, however, that she no longer feels any desire to yell at Zuko for all the mistakes he has made, and the realisation angers her; no matter how much hurt he may have gone through, no matter how kind he may have been as a child, she does not believe that these things excuse any of his actions, and yet suddenly, it seems that he is exempt from those very actions' results. If their positions were swapped, she doubts he would do the same for her.

Yesterday, when he asked her not to tell anyone what she found out from his dream, he said her name. It was in the same way that she remembered saying his, when his uncle was shot down and she offered her help - a sort of peace offering, a momentary plea to forget about sides or grudges or the idea of being enemies, and instead see each other simply as people, in need of help or able to offer it. Unlike him, though, she gave him what he asked for, allowed for those few moments of peace to settle in the air and be acted upon instead of burning them to ashes. She wonders if she has been too kind, to someone who doesn't even know what the word entails.

No - it was the right thing to do, she reminds herself. As she said that night, it was simple decency - nothing more and nothing less. However, not expressing her anger towards him because of his past seems more like kindness than anything else, and while she thinks everyone deserves decency, she is not inclined to believe that he deserves kindness, especially from her. And so, still staring at her ceiling, she decides that she will not act any differently during their healing session today; perhaps, now, she will not go out of her way to express her anger towards him, but if he says something stupid, she won't hesitate to react.

Deep down, she hopes he doesn't speak - he always says something stupid.

.

For the first half of the session, her wishes are fulfilled. It is a tense silence that fills the room, as if they both prepared themselves for the other to mention what happened the day before, but hadn't considered the possibility that neither of them would want to discuss it. The unease is so mutual that almost feels like peace.

He ruins it. The little clearing of his throat sounds almost monstrous after the long quiet, and when he speaks, he does not look at her. "I don't... I don't usually get bad dreams. I don't know why that even happened yesterday."

So this is what he chooses to break the silence for; not a question of why she chose to stay in his room when he had a nightmare, not an interrogation of what exactly she found out from his dream, not even a proclamation that she is a creep for watching him sleep, no matter the reason. No - instead, he breaks the silence with a feeble defence of his mental well-being, or perhaps more accurately, his mental hardiness, his lack of damage. It's almost sad that he's so scared of being seen as weak, especially when she has a long list of other unsavoury adjectives to describe him with. It's also almost laughable.

"You don't need to explain yourself to me." She says, her voice softer than she expects. It almost sounds comforting, and she forces herself to hate it.

"I'm not. I'm just… informing you."

"You're informing me on something that's none of my business."

She swears his eyes turn a darker shade of gold, as if they are melting, or catching alight. "You made it your business."

There's an edge to his voice that she wants to feel angry at, but doesn't. How can she argue with the truth?

"Look, I'm sorry for… invading your privacy like that."

There's a long moment of silence. "It's fine."

Though she has been trying to avoid it since yesterday, her eyes drift to his scar. "And I'm sorry - about your-"

"It's fine."

He says it quicker, more harshly, this time. She decides it is the repetition that makes her angry.

"Can you stop saying that?" She snaps, her voice losing its softness.

He furrows his brows. "What?"

"Stop saying everything's fine when it's clearly not. I shouldn't have kept watching you when you were having a nightmare, and you... it's not..." Her voice fades out - there's no easy way to say that your father shouldn't have permanently mutilated you, and even so, he probably doesn't need to be reminded.

"Well maybe you should stop acting all nice just because you feel bad for me." He snaps. "I'd much rather you call me a disgrace than have you pity me."

"It's not- it's not pity! I have sympathy, if you even know what that word means."

"I know what sympathy is, and I don't want that either. If I've upset you enough for you to call me a disgrace, then you have the right to. I don't need that to change because you've suddenly decided that I… can't handle it."

"It's not about you!" She says, the water in the bowl beside her trembling slightly. "I thought I was right to call you that too, after everything you've done. But I think I've realised… no one has the right to call anyone pathetic, disgraceful, whatever else. Words like that hold too much power."

There's a quiet that stretches on for far too long, when suddenly he looks at her, his eyes wide and filled with something she doesn't know how to describe. "What did you hear?" He asks, his voice low, serious. There's no danger in it, but she feels on edge nonetheless.

"In your dream?"

"Yes, in my dream." He says, as if it is obvious, his voice growing louder. "What, did you hear him calling me a disgrace? Calling me pathetic, or telling me I'm weak or- or-"

"No, no, I didn't hear any of that!" She interrupts, not wanting to hear anything else his father might have called him. It feels like she is watching a knife twist in his gut, or listening in on a private conversation - a particularly harrowing one.

"So you expect me to believe that you just happened to reach that realisation right after right after you saw me dreaming?"

"I expect you to at least consider the possibility that I came to that realisation on my own, through contemplation. I have a working brain, you know." She snaps, ignoring the fact that she probably wouldn't have realised anything of the sort without seeing his dream. "Look, when you were dreaming, all I saw was you touching your scar and saying please, and saying- saying that you wouldn't fight your father. That you were his… loyal son. That's it."

"What, and that's made you suddenly decide you don't hate me?" He says sarcastically.

"I still hate you." She snaps, slightly too defensive. "I just hate your father more."

He's silent for a moment. "You don't know my father."

"I know enough."

He lets out a humourless laugh. "You know he gave me this," he points at his scar. "that's not much information."

She thinks her head might explode; the water swells and almost spills from its bowl. "I know he's murdered millions in some sick quest for power. I know his war took away the men from my village and his policy killed my mother. And yes, I know he scarred his own son - and I know what kind of person you need to be to do all those things."

Something like shame appears on his face when she speaks of his father's war; it disappears as soon as she mentions his scar.

"What kind of person is that, then?" he asks; she can't tell if he wants to know, or wants to prove her wrong.

"Someone with no empathy, no compassion. Someone who's just… malicious and selfish and cruel. Incapable of love."

"You're wrong. He's capable of love, if you've earned it."

Of course - he wanted to prove her wrong. The way he says it, as if there's nothing wrong with the sentence, is somewhere between being sad and laughable again. This time, though, she finds it more sad.

"That's not love." She tells him, wishing she was saying it smugly. Instead, it feels more like she is giving him particularly upsetting news - the death of a friend, the contraction of a long-term illness, something of that sort.

"It is where I'm from." He says. The reaction is exactly what she would expect, if he had been given news like that - denial. "You wouldn't understand."

The laugh she lets out is only half fake. "So you're saying that every parent in the Fire Nation acts like your father? That every parent scars their kid if they haven't earned their love? Because I'm pretty sure not every little Fire Nation boy walks around with the mark of the banished prince on their face."

"Thanks for reminding me of what it means." He says darkly, and the guilt she felt yesterday reappears, suddenly lodged in the back of her throat.

"I'm sorry. I was just-"

"Repeating what I said. I know. And for what it's worth, things in the Fire Nation are different to the rest of the world, in some ways. There's a focus on honour, obedience… respect." He pauses, hanging onto the last word for a second too long. "That's not what I meant, though. I was talking about the Palace."

She stares at him for a moment, incredulous. "If there's no real love there, why in La's name do you want to go back so badly?"

"It is love." He insists; then, however, he pauses for a moment, as if contemplating her question, or perhaps just considering whether or not to contemplate it. Either way, when he speaks, his voice is softer than previously. "And it's my home; they're my family. I don't know what else you'd expect me to do." He waits, as if he's forgotten something, before adding, "And, it's my destiny."

"I understand home, and I understand family, but destiny... what do you think your destiny is?"

He answers as if the response is automatic, as if there is no thought put into it. "To regain my honour, and my title. I was born the heir to the throne - I know that's what I'm meant to be."

She scoffs. "I thought you were free to determine your own destiny."

"I am." He scowls, his voice insistent. "That's what I've chosen."

She opens her mouth to argue, but she remembers the way he paused in the Crystal Catacombs, looking at both Aang and Azula so intensely, before attacking Aang. Maybe this whole ordeal has proven that he wasn't lying about everything he said that day, but it was his decision to throw all of that away when he sided with his sister, and it was his decision to betray herself and his uncle, and endanger Aang, in doing so.

"You're right." She says, her voice calm but unmistakably cold. "You have chosen."

He furrows his brows slightly, as if confused by her answer.

"You've picked the wrong choice, the choice that's caused people to get hurt and will cause even more to, but it's yours to choose. You chose it in Ba Sing Se, and it must have backfired for you to get banished again and sent on this mission, but you still believe in it. And you're allowed to - but don't expect any sympathy from me when things go wrong."

"They're not going to go wrong." He says, the uncertainty in his voice poorly hidden.

"As if they haven't in the past? As if Aang didn't escape your clutches every single time you captured him? As if you wouldn't have died in the North Pole if we hadn't saved you? As if Azula didn't fail to end the avatar state in Ba Sing Se?" She says, anger pushing the words from her tongue before she has the chance to think about them. "And even if things go smoothly and you regain your precious title and end up becoming Firelord, what are you going to do? Are you going to end the war, or are you going to let millions more people die so you can gain power? Or do you assume that the war will be won by the time you're crowned - that the Fire Nation will have taken over the world, or maybe destroyed it so that they're the only world left? What will you do with the bodies of all the men who died for your family's century long ego trip - mass graves? Cremation? Or maybe you'll just leave them to rot - maybe that's how it's done in the Fire Nation."

Zuko appears to be speechless. The silence after she speaks continues for long enough for it to become suspenseful, then awkward, then laughable, then quite boring. Just when she feels close to yelling at him to say something, he replies.

"I… hadn't really thought about that."

"Maybe you don't want your title as much as you think you do, then." She says bitingly.

He doesn't end up replying to her, and she is quite content with that - perhaps it means he is taking her words into consideration.

—

ok this is like 3000 words of just dialogue and not my best writing but i wanted to publish this chap before i go back to school and my updates inevitably get slower, i'm gonna try to update more frequently but we'll see how that goes once next term starts i guess

thanks to those who reviewed, and especially thanks to gh0stwriter for telling me some of my chaps were uploaded in the wrong order!! that and the duplicate chap are now fixed, and i also realised my italics disappeared on most chaps because i copied and pasted the writing, so i've fixed that as well

anyway hope u guys liked this chapter!! faves and reviews are always appreciated!!