Sometimes she sleepwalks.
This is a rare occurrence reserved for nights when the nightmares are too heinous for Shuang's tea to overcome, and Katara suffers the episodes, despite having scant memory of the experience in the morning. It would take a harder man than Iroh, indeed it would take a hard man overall, to not pity the bruised shadows under her eyes. More troubling than the fatigue, however, is the matter of location. In the confines of his estate, her sleepwalking followed a pattern; there were a set number of spots she could be found in. The library. The kitchen. The garden. In the morning, they knew where to find her.
On the ship, it is different. As if compensating for the new lack of space, Katara's sleepwalking turns hazardously random. She drifts into the mess hall, curls up on the soldiers' bunks, tucks her small self into a corner of the helm. Iroh can discern no pattern in the wandering, and he worries about the crew mistaking her affliction for madness; Katara is already a clear oddity among them—he does not want to see her shunned. But Iroh's concerns prove unneeded; the crew does not shun her, nor do they express disgust for the weakness. Instead they are...sympathetic. They allow Katara to roam freely in her daze, maintaining a careful watch to make sure she doesn't head overboard or into the engine furnace. When she falls asleep in a stranger's bed, shivering, she wakes up with a blanket wrapped around her. In the morning no one mocks, no matter how discretely, and breakfast will usually have the addition of steamed pears filled with comforting honey. Pleased but puzzled by the wealth of concern, Iroh wonders at its origins.
It is Lieutenant Ji who sheds light on the mystery, appearing at Iroh's door one night with a familiar bundle of padded sleeping robes and tousled dark hair in his arms. Gently, he settles the girl down on the bed with a tenderness and lack of fumbling that suggests he has done similar tasks before. Iroh watches the man adjust the pillow to better cradle Katara's head.
"I have a daughter only a little older than her," the lieutenant explains softly.
So the crew is kind. Committed to a quest many believe to be a fool's errand, they are under the constant temptation of feeling lost and thus find it easy to sympathize with the little blue-eyed stray in their midst.
Zuko's reaction is greatly less understanding.
The sleepwalking is news to him, and unwelcome. When he demands why the matter wasn't mentioned before, Katara, her patience worn out by a bad night, snaps that he never asked, so quit growling about it! It doesn't concern him, does it? And it's not like there's something you can do about it, is the last barb she slings in his direction. The rest of breakfast is spent in prickly silence, Iroh's banter failing to subdue the stinging atmosphere. The two combatants refuse to look at each other, their postures radiating the promise of a lengthy avoidance.
Thus it's understandably surprising when two days later Katara is slumped outside Zuko's door with her eyes closed and her breathing peacefully deep. A passing guard discovers the girl and, being a less practiced man than Ji, makes the innocent mistake of trying to rouse her. Katara's scream is a blind gush of panic and shock. It rebounds through the hall and penetrates the iron walls to wake Zuko, who throws open his door to find Katara hysterically clawing at the well-meaning hand around her arm.
What follows next is a brief, scorching explosion of sharp words (Zuko), clumsy and stunned apologies (the guard), and the ragged muffled sobs of a scared child (Katara.)
It is the first time Zuko sees her cry.
Left alone, the two of them stand equally disoriented in the clutter of the moment. Finally, Katara drags a sleeve across her puffy eyes, too tired and miserable to summon proper manners or feel embarrassed by their absence, and mutters, "It's okay. I'm sorry for disturbing you, Prince Zuko. I-I'll go back to my room now. And I'll lock the door better this time. Or something. Sorry."
She avoids looking at him, but her slumped shoulder and pinched face are a loud cry of dejection. The tears have clumped her eyelashes into wet triangles.
Not your concern, she'd said. And, it's not like there's something you can do about it.
Zuko says, "Come in. You can fall asleep here tonight."
What is stranger, that he offers or that she accepts? In the end, both actions weigh the same. Katara curls up on the banished prince's bed; Zuko watches the Waterbender bring her knees to her chest, palms folded under cheek, making herself as small a target as possible.
"Do you want me to leave lamps burning?" he asks.
"I like the glow," she says. "Only…will you stay? Please? Just until I fall asleep."
He stays.
In the morning, Katara wakes up in her own bed. Per usual she cannot locate much of the nightmares that held her, only the hollow tear left by their visit. Yet this morning the emptiness is not absolute. By its side are hazy memories shielded in gold, of being suspended but safe, supported, secure in the carriage of strong arms, and of warm fingers lightly brushing the wet corners of her eyes.
Author's Note: Chronologically, this segment takes place prior to "homespun." Oops, goes I.