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America, 1862

"You're still walking wrong."

"I'm not really sure how I can walk wrong; I've been practicing since I was two." Katara rolls her eyes, shoving a hand through her short brown hair.

"You swing your hips like a woman. A man strolls like he has a purpose."

"I do have a purpose," Katara practically yells.

"You also slide your feet," Zuko continues, ignoring her. "A man naturally stom-"

"Oh La, where would I be without you?" Katara asks sarcastically.

"In prison, possibly hanged." Zuko shrugs. "Anywhere but here."

It is to dark to see his face properly. The moonlight shines shadows on his face, casting his golden eyes into a deep copper color. Zuko's black hair easily melts into the night. But the frown, turning down his pale lips, is visible.

Frustrated, Katara sighs. "I'm trying! What if you pretended to be a woman for just a day? How fast would you stumble and fail?"

"Yes," he starts, "all true. But you need to learn as fast as you can. We wouldn't want anymore whispered suspicions."

"Wait," Katara says, stopping suddenly in her pacing, "people are already figuring it out?"

"Not exactly. They just think you would have a different taste in a lover." He blinks and suddenly Katara can see red staining his cheeks in the dark. "If you understand my meaning."

"Arrggg! I don't know which one is worse. Both would get me into serious trouble."

"Don't worry, Kato," Zuko says soothingly. "We'll diverge all suspicion from you. And they're good lads; they wouldn't snitch on either."

Katara nods back as fear starts to accumulate in her eyes. His eyes soften to golden sympathy.

"Let's work on your spitting technique."

"My what?!"

"Now any soldier will be discouraged when finding out he will be losing a limb. But it is for the best. Overrule their decision and make sure they're heavily drugged up with chlorophyll."

Katara's face twists into a scowl as the head surgeon lists off the steps to performing a perfect amputation. Other medical soldiers nod along eagerly, oblivious to what a scene would look like during a battle scenario.

The model is little more than a sack of rice, piled to resemble a human figure.

"Tightly turn the tourniquet on the patient's arm or leg before starting. Make an incision circling about five to ten inches above the infected area. Don't be afraid by the resistance the bone will give, the saw will cut through it. After, sew together the skin to close off the area; use any rags you can find to warp the end of the stump."

Katara finds herself raising her hand, wiggling her fingers to get his attention. "Sir, shouldn't we be using clean and disinfected rags?"

The surgeon narrows his eyes; he sneers. "The first few seconds are critical. You will not have time to be picky."

"But Sir, I've read that infection is killing more soldiers than on the battlefield. Shouldn't we try our bes-"

"I am your superior officer," he yells, his graying hair frizzy and eyes frazzled, "I've been behind the front lines; I have seen the true horrors. You are nothing, insignificant. Do not correct me again!"

Katara mutely nods and fades to the back. Searching for relief from the scolding, her blue eyes find Zuko barking orders to a crowd of new recruits. Her chest warms, and her mind simmers down.

"What was the old world like?" Zuko asks, taking off his uniform.

Katara turns around, blush spreading across his cheekbones. He really didn't have to that in front of her. When she hears the splash of water, she hesitantly turns finding the bottom half submerged with only his chest in view. "Snowy," is her only answer.

Small scars freckling his pale skin become visible as she moves closer to the water's edge. Their hidden stories intrigue her.

"Are you going to come in?"

"I was thinking of bathing later." Her eyes trace the heavens, and her cheeks are patterns of red blush. The stars smile down upon her.

"That could be dangerous with your situation," Zuko says, his eyes twinkling as he splashes water onto her legs.

"Hmmm. Is this your way of getting me naked, Lieutenant Zuko?" Cockyness grows in her voice, her hands already on the collar of her shirt.

"How could you think so low of me?" He mockingly places a hand on his chest. "That hurts, Kato."

"Oh? Maybe I should stop unbuttoning my shirt." Katara lets the article of clothing drop to the ground. Her trousers are thrown into the clothing pile, and she stands- mostly -naked before him. Breast bands and underwear cover her private parts.

Her long, caramel legs glide through the water as her feet carry her to him. Water laps at Katara's stomach.

"You dropped this," Katara whispers, placing a chunk of soap back into his hands. It had fallen with a clunk onto the water's surface. Katara is but a finger away from him, and she continues to stare into his eyes.

"Much obliged." Zuko's voice is thick.

America, December 24, 1862

"Is this what your home country looked like?" Zuko asks while he continues to clean the barrels of his rifle. Katara's brother sits a rock away and answers for her.

"The snow was whiter. Not with this dirty soot that is mixed in when it falls on the city," Sokka grunts.

"Why didn't you settle in the countryside, become farmers. It sounds like that was a life you were hoping to find."

"The boat dropped us off in the Boston Harbor," Katara responds, "The city was in front of us and that's where we stayed."

Zuko hums in response, slowly dragging his sullied cloth in and out of the barrel of his rifle.

Katara continues, stuck in a memory. "The hustle and bustle of the city startled us at first," she laughs, "it made me jump every time someone yelled. There was so much animosity, nothing like the quaint and friendly village we left. Our dad had arrived a couple of years earlier, so he had already acquired a good amount of wages to live comfortably, as one could in a decaying apartment."

"What about you, Zuko? Are you first generation American?" Sokka interrupts.

"My family is descendants of the first colonists. As far as I know, most of my family has been born on American soil. There's nothing special about us."

Besides being extraordinarily rich, Katara's inner thoughts mumble. "So you're a city boy through and through," Katara teases instead.

"And you're a country gal," Zuko coughs, "guy, a country guy."

Sokka jumps in his seat from Zuko's sudden slip up but doesn't proceed to comment. His knuckles tighten on the stock of the rifle, and his eyes will never leave Zuko's figure until all is explained. And it will be explained soon, in the rushing and stuttering of Zuko's speech when he is nervous.

It's midnight now, and Christmas morning will be coming soon. Soft flakes float from the pitch black sky. They collect in her hair, creating a reef that drips water onto her forehead and plasters her short locks to her cheeks.

"How's training coming along?" Zuko asks quietly, his back pressed against the frosty bark of the tree. His arms wrap loosely around her waist as Katara sits in between his legs. They are hidden from the camp and patrolling soldiers.

"I barely agree with the man in charge and it takes all of my energy to bite my tongue. But I am now confident that I can save your life if the need arises."

"I'm sure that will be any day now," Zuko jokes, adding in his own dry chuckle.

Katara turns her body to whack him in the shoulder. "Don't even joke about that!"

Zuko raises his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay this is not the time for those jokes. I'll save them for after the war."

"After? You can see that far ahead?"

He takes her face in his hands. "You've shown me that."

His lips fold over hers. Katara is quick to respond, knowing they have to be careful. Her hands fist in his hair as she pulls herself closer. His pale, chapped lips are coarse against her own.

This is real life, and Zuko is kissing her.

He shakily pulls back, his eyes bright and alive. "Merry Christmas, Kato."

America, January 1, 1863

"Is it true?" Katara says breathlessly.

Zuko sports a grim frown, his golden eyes lidded. "I-I'm afraid it is. We're all leaving in the morning. I was so ready before. To fight, to put this country back together. Now I have something to live for; I don't want to lose you."

Katara clutches his hands, threading her fingers through his. "Don't worry, we will survive this war together."

Don't you just love dramatic irony?

I thought a bunch of short Zutara moments would suffice. I hope this was what you wanted. And yes, I did watch Mulan before writing this. But most of this has to come from my love of the new PBS show Mercy Street, which is about the Civi War.

I have decided that this will be the final chapter.

Edit 2/9:

This will not be the final chapter. I lied, sorry!

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