a/n this is my attempt at a "Hakoda adopts Aang" fic because yes Aang deserves all the good things in the world

hope you guys enjoy!

Hakoda can't sleep.

Not that he wasn't accustomed to the feeling. During the war, he had become intimately acquainted with the sight of the tent canopy hanging over him as he tried in vain to quiet the buzzing in his ears. Countless nights had been spent listening to the soft snores of his men around him and the chirps of the crickets in the darkest hour. Many times over—too many to count—he had watched as the navy blue canvas of twinkling stars turned (blood)red on the horizon as the sun rose in the sky.

But even before the war, when the love of his life had been murdered in their own home, weeks saw him waking up with sweat slickening his skin and heart pounding in his chest as the smell of smoke and fire and ash filled his nostrils and the deafening silence roared loudly in his ears.

He had never realized how much her breathing helped him sleep until those nights.

At first, it had been exhausting to wake up with adrenaline buzzing through his veins in the dead quiet of night. But eventually, Hakoda got used to those sleepless nights. Even welcomed them. Closing his eyes meant dreaming—of her, of the men he lost, of the screams from the wounded and dying—so he much preferred the exhaustion that weighed down his bones than reliving his nightmares over and over and over again.

But this time, it's different. Maybe because this time, the war is over.

And Hakoda still can't sleep.

Perhaps it is the fact that he had lived his entire life in war, with his blood rushing through his veins and his heart racing with every battle. Perhaps it is the fact that he had never truly known peace, not really, and now that it's really here he doesn't know what he can or should do. Perhaps it is the fact that he had gotten so used to the screams of the dead and the groans of the wounded that its absence prickles at the back of his neck, an unconscious alert of unfamiliar danger.

Sleepless nights spent on alert for the next enemy—that is something Hakoda is very familiar with. But sleepless nights caused by the absence of an enemy, an anticipation for the next death in a battle that will never come?

That is something that unnerves him.

And so instead of trying to fall back asleep, Hakoda walks the courtyards of the Fire Nation Palace, away from the stuffy halls of (blood)red and oppression. The breeze caresses his skin as he gazes up at the thousands of constellations twinkling overhead.

(a part of him ponders how strange it is that the stars shine just as brightly upon the nation that tried to destroy them as they do upon his own tribe)

There is a flutter of movement out of the corner of his eye, and Hakoda has to stop himself from reaching for his club as he turns towards it. Much to his surprise, instead of a firebender lurking in the shadows, he sees a yellow butterfly flitting about. The fire from the torches lighting up the courtyard reflects off of its wings, making it look like a lone tongue of flames dancing in thin air.

He isn't entirely sure what compels him to do what he does next—perhaps it is simply a feeling, an intuition stirring deep in his bones. Whatever it is, he finds himself following the yellow butterfly through the courtyard and into the halls. Even in the gloomy dim light of the candles, Hakoda finds he can still see the butterfly clearly, almost as though it is glowing.

Before he knows it, Hakoda finds himself on a stone balcony that overlooks the courtyards. The balcony is wide enough that several people can stand comfortably on it, and a railing lines its edge. The yellow butterfly has vanished, and in its place, he sees…

Even in the dim light of the torches, he can see the orange and yellow robes that flutter in the breeze. The silhouette sits near the edge of the balcony, and Hakoda can see his shoulders rise and fall with every breath. Steady. Calm.

But what is most telling of him is the line of blue that arches over the crown of his head and runs down his back before disappearing into his robes.

A part of Hakoda thinks that he shouldn't disturb the Avatar, that he should simply turn away and leave him to his meditation, but something stops him. Maybe it is the way the Avatar is holding himself—something that he can't place, but something that runs a little deeper, a little sadder. Maybe it is the way the blue line on his back is knotted and twisted by that scar, that scar that Katara had wept over for weeks, that scar that reminds him that the Avatar isn't a deity, not really.

Maybe it is the way he seems so young, like his children had been before the war took everything.

A sharp intake of breath interrupts the cadence of the Avatar's breathing pattern, and Hakoda watches as he stretches. The way he moves as he picks himself up is graceful and serene, reminding Hakoda of leaves drifting in the wind.

But when the Avatar turns around and catches sight of Hakoda, he yelps in surprise, and any trace of peace vanishes from his posture.

"Chief Hakoda!" The Avatar— Aang , Hakoda remembers, Aang —quickly dusts himself off. He clears his throat and straightens as though nervous. "I, uh, wasn't expecting to see you at this hour."

Hakoda can't help but smile in amusement and fondness. "Please, Avatar," he says, reaching out his hand, "just call me Hakoda."

Apparently over his surprise now, Aang clamps his hand against Hakoda's in a traditional Water Tribe greeting. "In that case, just call me Aang," he says with a slight smile.

Aang sits down again, and taking his cue, Hakoda sits down alongside him. For a while, the two of them look to the sky, where the constellations roam. A cool breeze has picked up, soothing Hakoda's skin and ruffling Aang's robes—the way the yellow cloth flutters in the breeze reminds Hakoda of the yellow butterfly. Silence fills the space between them, interrupted only by the cool breeze and the soft crackle of flames on the torches.

"If you don't mind me asking"—Aang's voice shakes Hakoda from his reverie, and he turns to see Aang looking curiously at him—"why are you still awake?"

(fire burning, burning, burning)

(smoke wafting from a still body)

(waking up to roaring silence)

"Couldn't sleep," is all Hakoda can bring himself to say. He clears his throat and looks over at Aang. "And you?"

Something flickers in Aang's expression then, a flash of emotion that Hakoda notices only just in time. It disappears as quickly as it has come, but in that split second, Hakoda has seen it.

Grief… and sorrow.

(a part of him wonders what hides behind his smile and laugh, what he masks behind his childlike joy)

Hakoda notices then that Aang is holding a mala necklace in his hands. Aang's fingers trace the whorls etched in the wooden pendant—an unconscious action, by the looks of it. Again and again, he draws the symbol of air—the symbol of the Air Nomads.

And then Hakoda understands.

"Some nights aren't so bad," Aang says, shaking Hakoda out of his thoughts. Hakoda turns to see him staring out to the horizon. "Sometimes it feels like I'm with them again, and it's like nothing ever happened." He laughs—a little sad, a little weary. "I would just be playing with them again, or making fruit pies, or flying in the air with them.

"And sometimes…" Aang's voice wavers as he blinks rapidly. Hakoda can't help but notice how Aang's knuckles turn white as he grips the wooden beads. Hakoda can hear him swallow, as though his words were knotted up in his throat.

When Aang doesn't say anything more, Hakoda gently asks, "How often do you dream of them?"

Aang squeezes his eyes shut. "Every day," he whispers.

The silence between them is filled only by the rustling wind. Hakoda wonders if he imagines the way the breeze caresses his face, like the spirits of the airbenders have come down to bring solace to their last surviving member.

"But sometimes…" Aang's fingers twist the necklace around his hands. "Sometimes, I just can't sleep. I'll try to, but…" He looks like he struggles for the words to describe it. "It's like I'm waiting for them to come—come home, even though I know they're all gone. And when I do fall asleep, it's the fact that they're gone, that they're not here, that wakes me up." He looks up at Hakoda, his gray eyes reflecting the firelight from the torches. "Does… does that make sense?"

And it does, Hakoda thinks, it does. Maybe he hasn't felt the loss that Aang has—an entire nation gone, all the people he had loved destroyed—but he understands how it feels for an absence to become a tangible presence, a specter of wrongness that haunts him at every step.

Silence fills the space between them once more. Hakoda looks over to see Aang's eyes are unfocused. His fingers are clenched around the necklace once more, and Hakoda can't help but wonder if he hangs on because he's afraid to let go.

(he knows he had been when he kept Kya's necklace with him for weeks afterwards)

And it shouldn't be that way, Hakoda thinks, it shouldn't be that way. Aang was only a child—younger than even his own children. He shouldn't have to be the one to fight in a war that took everyone and everything away from him, nor should he have been forced to save a world he had never been born in.

(but war takes and takes and takes and he knows it does, knows it deep in his bones, but it is still unfair to expect children to fight)

(how cruel the world is to take everything from them all)

But maybe, maybe it will help, Hakoda thinks, if there is someone who is willing to give back.

He watches Aang's face carefully as he says softly, "Tell me about them, then."

Aang raises his head to look at him, surprise on his face. But maybe he sees something in Hakoda's face, something genuine and kind, because his own face softens with an unspoken thank you.

Hakoda leans back, and he listens as Aang tells him the story of his people.

He learns about the games they competed in, the pranks they had played. He learns about all the different monks who presided over his teachings, all his friends and peers who would go exploring in the grottoes with him or soar high above when they had been gifted with their air gliders. He learns about the air scooter that Aang had invented at only twelve and the tattoo ceremony he had to go through. He learns that Aang's favorite game is airball and he listens as he recounts all the fond memories he's had with his friends.

But most of all, he learns about Gyatso, the mentor who became Aang's father. He learns about his kindness, his compassion, his joyful and whimsical demeanor. He learns about how he had raised Aang like a son, how he taught everything that Aang knows now and even more. He learns about how Gyatso had always reminded Aang to always remember to have fun , because the world would become a little brighter if he found a reason to laugh. He learns about how much of a prankster he had been and how he would always whip up freshly baked fruit pies just to throw them at the elders.

He learns of how Gyatso was the only one who would treat Aang like Aang when the rest of the Air Nomads would treat Aang like the Avatar. He learns of how Gyatso would be the only one who would keep him company when even his own peers, his own friends, would reject him. He learns of how Gyatso would be the only one to stand up for Aang when the rest of the elders insisted he keep training and training, because war takes and takes and takes and they have to be prepared, no matter the cost.

And then he learns of that one moment when Aang realized that the elders would be willing to take him away from his mentor, his friend, his father.

(he remembers the moment when the war had ripped him away from his children, the way his son looked so small and alone as they disappeared into the fog on their warships)

(how cruel can a world be to rip sons and daughters away from fathers and mothers?)

When Aang finishes speaking, the horizon glows with just a tint of red. Aang's gaze is fixed upon the horizon, his fingers fiddling with the beads on the necklace. "And now…" His voice trails off in a whisper. "Now, they're all gone." His eyes glaze over with unshed tears as he twists the necklace in his hands. "And I've lost…"

everything.

Aang is the story of a lost people, of a lost culture. Even if he had never met them himself, even if they are only hearsay upon the wind now, Hakoda's heart aches for them all. He can hear the love Aang holds for them in his words of joy, in his tears of grief, in the way he is so careful when he tells him their stories.

He thinks of Gyatso, the only father Aang has had in his life. It isn't fair that the world would take his father from him and still demand more. It isn't fair that Aang had to give up not only his people but his childhood—all because of a responsibility he never asked for. It isn't fair that Aang is standing here today, alone and without his father, his people, his nation.

He thinks of Kya, of her radiant smile and her gentle eyes. He thinks of Bato, now scarred and wounded by the war. He thinks of the countless men who gave their lives to keep their tribe, their family , safe.

No, it isn't fair at all. But war takes and takes and takes until there's nothing left to take, and those who are left still have the choice to give and heal each other, to live and help others live.

Hakoda knows he isn't Gyatso, and he won't ever be Gyatso. But there is still room in him to live and love and help others heal, and maybe that's all he can do so that Aang can gain back a part of himself that the war had taken.

He lays a hand on Aang's shoulder. "Tell you what," Hakoda says. "The next time you come around the Southern Water Tribe, I'll take you ice dodging. Maybe even go on a little gathering trip together."

Aang looks up at him, startled. His jaw drops and he sputters, "But what— I don't— me, ice dodging?" He points to himself as he glances around, as if expecting Hakoda to be talking to someone else. "But… why?"

Hakoda merely shrugs. "Well, why not?" He glances out to the horizon, where the red strip has become orange and gold—the color of the Air Nomads. "You're part of our family now." He looks back to Aang as he adds, "Sokka and Katara both love you dearly. That's good enough for me."

Aang's mouth parts in shock as he stares at Hakoda. Finally, he gathers enough of his wits to protest, "But with all due respect, Chief Hakoda, I'm not part of the Water Tribe." He glances down at the necklace entwined with his hands. "I'm sure I would just be breaching your hospitality if—"

"Aang." Hakoda squeezes his shoulder. "It doesn't matter that you weren't born in the Water Tribe." He looks over at Aang—a child, an airbender, the Avatar. "No matter where you're from or where you are now, you will always have a place in the Southern Water Tribe, and in my family." He smiles softly as he adds, "If there is anyone I would be proud to call my son, it would be you."

The rosy gold dawnlight reflects off of Aang's face in an unearthly, ethereal glow, and in that moment, Hakoda thinks that he seems so young, young and hopeful and alive.

Aang's bottom lip trembles, but the look he gives Hakoda speaks more gratitude than a thousand words can.

And together, they watch the sun rise to a new era.

Maybe it isn't what he expected, Hakoda thinks, maybe it isn't, but he can't say there is anything he would do to change anything at all.

Because when he sees the genuine grin on Aang's face after a gathering trip with just the two of them, when he sees how happy and content Aang is with Sokka and Katara, when he sees the tears of joy that run down Aang's face when Hakoda presents an airball court sculpted by ice, just for his sixteenth birthday (courtesy of Katara, of course), he wouldn't trade those moments away for anything else in the world.

And when he sees the betrothal necklace engraved with both the symbols of air and water peeking out from Aang's satchel, Hakoda can't help but smile.

No, it isn't what he expected. But war takes and takes and takes, and the pieces that are left behind have to fit together somehow. And maybe Hakoda can't be the people Aang had lost, but the least he could do is fill the father-shaped hole in his heart.

Hakoda still dreams of them all. He dreams of Kya, of the days before the war, of the men who were lost. But instead of dreaming of blood and violence and death, he dreams of them all standing by each other, watching their children play in the snowfields.

He dreams of Kya and her brilliant smile as she watches Sokka and Katara chase each other around in the snow. He dreams of Bato, scarless and strong, laughing along with them all as they watch the children of the village run around with each other. He dreams of fathers who embrace their sons and mothers who dote on their daughters, even those who had been lost to the war.

And he dreams of an old man in Air Nomad robes with a white flowing mustache and kind, gentle eyes gazing fondly upon Aang. He dreams of Aang's mischievous grin as he tackles Sokka into a snowdrift, and of Aang's giggles as Katara unleashes a shower of kisses upon his face. He dreams of a father who watches over his son and looks to Hakoda with the weight of a thousand unspoken thank yous.

The war may have taken too much from them all, but in the grief and loss and pain that plagues them both, they have found each other.

And they both have come home.