12. Mistake
"You never liked celebrating my birthdays." Zuko spoke in monotone, but his eyes said eveything he wanted to say and more. Katara was still holding onto his arm stupidly as Ozai darkly chuckled back. It was exactly how one of her favorite authors described the villain, with a "high, cold, cruel laugh."
"Come on," Zuko said to her, turning his face away from his father and squeezing her hand. "Let's go home."
She mutely nodded and was just about to take a step towards the black limo when Ozai spoke again. "She's different from Mai, isn't she?"
"That is none of your business." Zuko seemed rooted to the spot, despite that his feet were starting to face in the opposite direction.
"You don't want her to see your father." Ozai mocked, and his eyes roamed Katara in such a way that she felt as if she were standing naked in the public parking lot. She shuddered internally. Zuko pulled her even closer, the bag of sambar hitting her leg with a crackle.
"You are not my father."
"Why don't you disown me? Why do you go by my surname?"
Zuko glared furiously. He never was good at controlling his emotions, Katara realized with a start. He tried, but there was always built up inside of him and exploded everywhere.
"Can't answer that?" Ozai stepped forward. Zuko tensed. "Perhaps you have some sympathy for your old man?"
"Sympathy?" Zuko's fists clenched, and Katara nearly cried out at the sudden movement, the forcefulness of it. "You ruined my life, you—"
"Ruined it?" Ozai slightly tossed his head and looked Zuko directly in the same amber eyes. "I made you, boy. You were never good enough. Azula could do circles around you. Don't deny about your swimming. You never had natural talent. It was an escape, like drugs or alcohol, but not illegal or dangerous, of course—not for Ursa's little boy."
Zuko's blunt fingernails were indenting into her skin. She bit back as hiss of pain. His eyes were entirely locked on Ozai's, focused and angry and something else.
"You finally became something, and yet you never acknowledged me, never said a word about your family. The press will have a field day with you if all those dirty little secrets leak out one day, wouldn't they?"
"Don't you dare!" His grip loosened slightly on her hand, his palms suddenly sickenedly slippery hot.
"I don't have the pleasure of telling the press, though, since they're not here." His eyes landed on Katara. She had hoped he'd forgotten about her. "Why don't we tell your little friend right here? Get her a never-before-seen interview of the brilliant Zuko Agni?"
Katara felt herself pushed back, harshly and suddenly. She gasped, and Zuko was standing in front of her, arms slightly raised like a bird about to take flight. "No," he said.
Ozai ignored him, turning to her. "It will be a good story, girl; I am a primary source, after all."
She found her voice, small but sharp like a dagger. "No. I know it. And I don't want to hear it coming from your lips, Ozai."
"The girl finally spoke—a little bite to her bark." he commented in a calm tone. "You know it, girl? He has told you?"
"Yes," she answered. It was half a lie.
He pounced on the half like a hawk's talons swooping in on the wekaest, slowest mouse, trying to be invisible among the plains, but making its struggles more obvious. "He left something out, did he? The missing mother? His prodigy sister? His poor performance in everything—"
"Shut up." Katara snarled, hand tightening around Zuko's immoble hand. He was still and stiff and something in his core seemed to be sucked out of him with every posionous word Ozai spoke.
He continued with more glee: "His attempts to run away? His pathetic escape attempts? His scar?"
Zuko's hand grew cold. Katara backed away from him. Stop, she thought, but couldn't make the words come out. Stop.
"Oh, his lovely scar. He tried to tell me the proper way to run my business, the little fool. Felt a bit indignant that a few families would go under, but he could not see the bigger picture. His sister always knew the greater good, the best way, but he was always whining and grousing. Usually, he kept it at home, but this time it was at one of my most important meetings. How embarrassing. What a disrespectful son."
Ozai sighed as if this story was already boring him, as if he'd told this a thousand times, and examined his perfectly-manicured nails. It was a strangely sinister and eerie gesture, and Katara felt something stand up in the back of her neck when he flicked something off the end of his thumb casually and with a small tch. "I pulled him into the office to shut him up before he ruined everything, but he just kept trying to point out with his mediocre business experience, which was far less than Azula's. Ah, the poor idiot was trying to be professional and expert, but he was moaning and bumbling and so damn irritating. It was a chilly day, and a fire was burning in my office."
Katara doesn't want to hear this anymore. She wants to push her palms against her ears and close her eyes and sink down to the ground. ZukoZukoZuko...
Zuko didn't say anything. He seemed to be paralyzed, a metal claw clenching around his throat.
"He was never good in his martial arts classes. Azula always was; she never would have fallen for such a simple push."
He continues to talk in a detached, but oily tone, and Katara's seeing everything as if she's there—Zuko's round eyes, startled as he's forcefully shoved by a hard hand, losing his balance, falling with arms flailing in a sickening pinwheel, face turning and landing in the flames, his legs crumpled underneath him, collapsed. His screams...
"...were horrendously loud, and the whelp couldn't simply pull himself out—so I had to, the ingrate—"
Katara doesn't know what really happens next, though she pictures it later in satisfied slow-motion. She only yanks herself from Zuko's grip with a twist and clenches her fist and her thumb is around it like Sokka once warned her about and it smacks cartilage with a peculiar crunching sound like gravel being stepped on or syrofoam breaking and when she pulls away slowly, she has wet liquid dripping onto her right hand and a stinging sensation in her knuckles.
She doesn't, again, remember much, but the next thing she really pictures clearly is sitting in the limo's backseat with Zuko staring at her as if she had burst out of a chicken egg with a dragon on her shoulder and balancing teacups on her head with a halo around her hair. It's an odd feeling.
They're in his apartment—wrong, his penthouse. It's open and sparse and looks as if someone had decorated it for him. He's grabbing some bandages and cotton and medical supplies from his cabinet. She's called home and told them she's fine, but she's going to be held up a while longer.
The two sit on the very large couch, with decorative pillows and spacious cushions. Zuko examines her proffered hand and wraps it carefully. Jee is waiting in the limo so she can be driven back.
He kisses her wrapped knuckle. "Katara..."
You know everything.
She reaches out and touches his scar for the first time. It is velvety and rough and a contradiction. Like him.
He leans into her touch as she herself moves forward, breath on his face, and kisses him very slowly, hand still on the scar.
She closes her eyes when he presses his mouth harder against hers. A brown curl dangles; he pushes it back furiously but gently so he doesn't bend her ear and continues the kiss.
The pillows are shoved onto the polished wood floor. Her legs are on the couch. She feels the rich fabric against her bare legs. Her dress is hot.
The couch is a nice shape and size and perfect.
Her shoes clatter to the floor loudly. He doesn't flinch. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, still.
It'll ruin the wood...
She kisses his bare shoulder, muscled and hard and strong.
Fabric falls to the floor very softly.
Jee is waiting for us.
She gasps, arches her back—Zuko clenches his jaw and buries his head into the place between her head and shoulder blade.
Katara closes her eyes.
She's being shaken. It's rather disconcerting, very quick and sudden.
Zuko is standing above her, clad in a hastily-tied robe. She murmurs sleepily and sits up to kiss him.
"No," he places hands on her shoulders. "No."
She really is awake now. She wraps the blanket now on the couch around herself, vulnerable and naked and dumb.
"What? Zu—"
"I was angry and proud and just..." he shakes his head, stands away. She's holding her blanket more tightly now. "I think...I think we should make Jee drive you home. We don't have practice today. Rest."
He walks into the kitchen. The coffee maker is hissing and grinding. Toast is wafting through the air.
She feels very alone.