oOoOo

When Jet woke, it took him several seconds to get his bearings. He was on the hard, wooden floor of the upstairs hallway, his back against the wall. A thin cotton blanket had been draped over him, one that smelled of boy and jasmine. He pressed it to his face for a moment, eyes half-lidded. Below him, he could hear pots rattling and the buzz of conversation.

He stood, feeling groggy in a way he wasn't used to. He didn't often sleep so deeply.

In the kitchen, the morning routine was well under way. Jin and Xue Sheng were at the table, as were Ping and his Earthbenders, the eight of them crowded around the list of teams they'd drawn up yesterday. Zuko was stirring a pot of rice porridge, scowling down at its bubbling contents.

He looked up when Jet stepped on a creaking stair, a shy smile blossoming. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," said Jet, uncharacteristically awkward. He moved just close enough to see the contents of the pot, then sniffed at the steam rising from it. "Needs more pepper," he said.

"Yeah, I…I was thinking that," said Zuko. "But I always add too much, so-"

"You would, I guess," said Jet, though he left it at that. He reached up and took a few small jars down from the shelf above the stove. "I'll finish this," he said. "Any eggs today?"

"Roo went out to look," said Zuko as he stepped aside, offering Jet the wooden spoon. "I um…I think there's a little dried fish somewhere…"

"Chop it up. We'll add it to this."

"All right." Careful not to come too close, Zuko walked past him to go and look in the pantry under the stairs.

Jet started dumping handfuls of seasoning into the pot. He was aware of Jin watching him from the table, though he pretended not to notice. It wasn't her business who he talked to, and they were just making breakfast.

Smellerbee ambled in from the main room, stretching her arms above her head. She came over to peer inside the pot, and he offered her a spoonful to taste.

"More salt," she said, then grinned lopsidedly. "Sleep well?"

"I guess."

"You didn't come back."

Jet threw in a pinch of salt and stirred the pot again, a little more vigorously than was needed. "I thought you two could use some privacy."

She laughed. "Uh huh. Just being generous."

"Where's Longshot? Still recovering?"

"Something like that," she chuckled. Then she leaned in a little closer, he voice too low for anyone else to hear. "Seriously, though…you okay?"

"Fine," he said.

"Did you-?"

"No. Nothing happened." He glowered at her, his frown as deep as he could make it. "Nothing's going to happen."

Smellerbee shrugged and patted him on the shoulder. "'Course," she said. "You do what you need to."

"This is all that's left," said Zuko. He'd finished his search of the pantry, and held a shriveled filet between thumb and forefinger. "Maybe if I cut it really small…"

"It's fine," said Jet stiffly. Smellerbee looked between them as Zuko set the fish down on his cutting board, but her mouth stayed shut.

The knock on the door came a few minutes later, when Jet was scraping Zuko's handiwork into the pot — Zuko was still a lousy cook, but he knew how to use a knife.

"I'll get it," said Zuko, wiping his hands on his apron. "It's probably Roo."

He slid the peephole cover aside — Roo knew to stand back far enough for them to be able to see her. But he didn't open the door. He only stared, frozen in place.

"Uncle?"

oOo

It took some time for Zuko to comprehend what was in front of him. Roo stood in her usual spot, just visible from the peephole and beaming confidently. "He said he knew you," she was saying, "so I asked him if he knew what your real name was and he did, so I said I'd do the special knock for him."

Behind her stood a bearded man in a long, dark robe with four eggs cupped in his hands, smiling at Zuko from underneath the hood.

"May we come in?" said Uncle gently, and Zuko jumped a little, startled into action. Uncle handed the eggs back to Roo as Zuko fumbled with the lock, finally lifting the bar out of the way and pulling the door open so he could burst through it. The impact of his embrace was enough to send Uncle a few steps back, his arms around Zuko's midsection, face pressed against the front of his apron.

Roo, who had had the presence of mind to get out of the way, watched them curiously until Zuko had recovered enough to speak. "Why don't you go help Jet finish breakfast," he said hoarsely. "I'll be in in a minute."

"Okay," said Roo with a little shrug. She pulled the door closed with her foot, affording them some degree of privacy, but Zuko didn't even know what he wanted to do with it. He had no idea what to say. So much had happened since the day Uncle had gone, slipping through the city's borders while they were still in chaos. Where could he even start?

Uncle pulled back a little, though he gripped Zuko's upper arms as he did so. "You have told them, then?" he asked.

"I had to," said Zuko. "I had to Firebend. He would've died."

"Then you made the right decision," said Uncle. "But…they know more than that, it seems?"

Zuko's mind ran through all the reasons why, complicated rationales all twisted in on themselves. Only one seemed worth mentioning just then. "I'm tired of lying to people," he said.

Uncle nodded. "You were never very good at it."

"I'm not that bad," Zuko protested, mostly out of habit.

Uncle smiled and led him over to the coal bin. They sat, each perched on a corner, elbows resting on their knees. "Tell me all that I have missed," said Uncle.

"Well…" Zuko frowned, unsure how to begin. "We've been fighting the occupation for a few months, me and Jet and the others. And Jin, she's still here. But everything's different now. There's an eclipse in a few days. And the Avatar's alive. He's invading the Fire Nation, and this guy asked us to go but I decided to…well, I'm here and I don't know, maybe I shouldn't be, maybe I should've tried to stop the invasion. But it didn't feel like I should. It felt right to be here, so I stayed. And we're going to take back the city. And Jet said I could help but he's…" Zuko paused, torn between what he knew Jet probably thought of him and what he hoped might be true. "Things are complicated," he finished. He glanced over as his uncle, and was surprised to see the older man's eyes brimming with tears.

"I'm sorry," Zuko said quickly, "I'm sorry, I…you weren't here, and I didn't know-"

But Uncle raised one hand to quiet him. "We had heard of the invasion," he said. "Chief Hakoda of the Southern Water Tribe sent us word of his plan. He calls it the 'Day of Black Sun.' He said a messenger had come here to ask for your help, and that you had declined." Uncle smiled, and his voice was thick when he went on. "I had hoped your reasons would be so honorable as these."

"But…Uncle, I didn't-"

Uncle rested a heavy hand on Zuko's shoulder. "You have come much further than your know," he said, smiling though his eyes were wet. "It is often difficult to find the right path, my nephew, but you did. You walked it all on your own. And I am so very proud of you."

Zuko frowned down at the cobblestones, his fingers laced together. He never knew how to respond when Uncle spoke to him this way — how to answer such earnest approval. Especially now, when that approval was so undeserved. "They're going to try to kill my father," he said, soft and halting, unused to saying these things aloud. "Shouldn't I…how is not helping him the right thing to do?"

He glanced over at his uncle, in time to see the flicker of rage that passed over his features. "He has chosen his own path," said Uncle. "How it ends is no fault of yours. You have your own destiny, Prince Zuko."

Zuko bit his lip. "I thought my destiny was to capture the Avatar."

"That was the destiny my brother tried to force upon you," said Uncle. Zuko could hear an edge of anger in his voice. "But it was not his decision to make."

"Maybe, but…Uncle, I don't know," Zuko murmured, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I feel like I'm just being selfish. Like I'm hiding."

Uncle shook his head. "You have sacrificed a great deal to save this city and these people. If love played a part in that as well as justice, so be it. No man's reasons are wholly selfless, Prince Zuko. It is part of what makes us human." He stood, sniffed once and loudly and dusted off the back of his robes. "Now. Let us go inside and eat whatever it is that smells so delicious. The others will be here soon."

"Others?"

"You will see," said Uncle.

Jin opened the door this time, grinning broadly when she recognized Uncle and giving him a quick hug before moving aside to let them pass. In the time they'd been talking in the alley, the kitchen had filled with hungry Freedom Fighters hunched over bowls of porridge. Jet hadn't moved from the stove. He spooned out portions for those still waiting in line, his movements stiff and mechanical, not turning around as Zuko and his uncle came in. Ping, however, rose from the table and wove his way across the room.

"Uncle, this is Ping," said Zuko once he'd reached them. "Ping, this is my uncle, Iroh."

"The Dragon of the West," said Ping, his tone a strange mix of reverence and caution. A reminder that he'd grown up here, just as Jin had.

"That was a long time ago," said Uncle.

"Perhaps," said Ping. "But it isn't a name Ba Sing Se will soon forget."

"I have learned to respect this city and its walls." Uncle smiled and offered a small bow. "And its people as well."

A loud, derisive snort rose from near the table, and Zuko saw Gen stand. "Fuck this," he grumbled, not bothering to keep his voice down, and the room watched him stomp out of the kitchen.

Beside the stove, Jet put the ladle down and leaned against the counter, shoulders hunched and head low.

"Uncle," Zuko began, but as usual Uncle didn't need an explanation.

"Jin, perhaps you could introduce me to these young ladies and gentlemen?" he asked. She smiled and lead him over to the table, while Zuko moved to stand beside Jet.

Jet didn't look at him, but this close Zuko could see how tense he was, every muscle in his neck and jaw tight.

"Can I talk to you?" Zuko murmured. He glanced back over his shoulder, to where his uncle was beaming down at a cluster of runners. "Privately?"

"Fine," Jet snapped. Without meeting Zuko's eyes, he turned and stalked over to the stairway.

Zuko caught up with him at the end of the upstairs hall, as far from the noise and light of the kitchen as they could get without going into one of the store rooms. Jet faced the far wall, his arms crossed and his back to Zuko.

"What?" he said.

"I…" Zuko swallowed, hooking his thumbs into the ties of his apron. It helped remind him that he couldn't reach out, not now, no matter how much he wanted to. "It's my uncle. He says he has friends who want to help us."

"So?"

"So…I wanted to ask what you thought. If you want them to help or not."

"What difference does it make what I think?"

Zuko's grip on the apron tightened. He could remember a world in which he didn't care what Jet thought, but it seemed very far away. "You're our leader," he said. "It's up to you."

Jet took a long time to reply. "This is your uncle's teahouse," he said finally. "I can't kick him out."

"He'd go, if you asked him to," said Zuko. Uncle could be infuriating, true, but he would never stay where he wasn't welcome. And even Zuko could tell that he respected Jet too much to want to try.

"Guess so." Jet sighed and turned around, leaning back against the wall. "I'll listen to what your uncle and his buddies have to say, all right?" He didn't meet Zuko's eyes, but his tone had softened a little. "It's not like we can't use the help."

Zuko allowed himself a small smile. "All right."

That business done, they slipped into a nervous silence, not uncomfortable so much as wound too tight. With no words to distract him, Zuko became more aware of their physical situation: two bodies in an empty hallway with barely an arm's length between them. It would have been easy to close the distance, push him back against the wall and press their chests together. Maybe that was what Jet wanted, too.

Jet had been outside their room last night. The blanket was still on the floor where he'd left it that morning, a subtle testament to their weakness for each other.

But whatever Zuko might have said about it — and whatever reply Jet might have offered — would have to wait. The stairs creaked behind him, and the upper half of Ping's body appeared.

"General Iroh's men have arrived," he said.

"We'll be right down," said Jet. Even in the dim hall, Zuko could see him frown. "These friends," he said, once Ping had disappeared again. "They anyone you know?"

"Uncle didn't say. Maybe."

"Well." Jet shook himself a little, unfolding his arms and straightening his spine. "Let's go find out."

oOo

Jin had chased everyone out of the kitchen while Jet and Zuko were upstairs. Only she, Ping and Xue Sheng sat at the table, now, a steaming up of tea in front of each of them. Smellerbee and Longshot stood with their backs to the stairway, holding their own cups out for Zuko's uncle to fill from a chipped green teapot.

The strangers were just inside the kitchen door. Three men, all on the far side of fifty by the look of them, dressed in the same dark, nondescript robes.

Jet could tell on sight that two of them were Fire Nation. One looked almost familiar, like a face he'd seen on some wanted poster in the forest years ago — his white hair stood out in a halo around his face, and he glowered from beneath bushy eyebrows. The other had a sword on his back and a clean if severe look, his beard neatly trimmed and his hair pulled back in a topknot. Jet guessed he wasn't a bender, but then, he hadn't thought Zuko was a bender, either.

The third was just as obviously Water Tribe, the blue of his tunic visible above the neckline of his robe. Jet couldn't help wondering what he was doing here, so far from home and in this kind of company. But he didn't seem especially concerned about either — mostly he looked annoyed, eyes half-lidded and mouth creased into a frown as he examined his surroundings.

"Master Piandao?" said Zuko. He'd gone down the stairs first, so Jet couldn't see his face, but he sounded both surprised and pleased. "What are you…how did you get here?"

"On a boat," the man with the topknot replied, mild and a little amused. "And then an eel hound. It's been a long time, Prince Zuko."

Zuko took Jet by the arm, easy and unthinking, and Jet was startled enough that he didn't pull away. He let himself be guided across the room to where the old men stood. He was wearing the same light, short-sleeved tunic he'd gone to bed in the night before, and Zuko's hand felt warm against his bare skin.

"Jet, this is Master Piandao," said Zuko, excited and grinning. "He taught me swordsmanship when I was a kid."

"Jet," said Piandao, inclining his head slightly before turning back to Zuko again. "Your uncle tells me you've continued your studies on your own. I look forward to seeing your progress."

Zuko must have realized where his hands were, then, as he dropped Jet's arm very quickly, and looked sheepish as he addressed the next of the strangers, the one with the crazy hair. "You're…Admiral Jeong Jeong?" he asked, uncertain.

"Not an Admiral any longer," the man rumbled.

"He likes to say he was the first to leave the Fire Nation army and live," said Piandao, smiling slightly. "But I beat him by a year at least."

Jeong Jeong harrumphed but didn't dignify this with a reply, and Zuko's uncle chose that moment to step into the conversation, having filled every cup in the room. "They granted you leave in the beginning," he said, still holding the teapot in both hands. "I believe Jeong Jeong bested you on a technicality."

"Are you going to introduce me or shall I go and sit in the alleyway again?" the man from the Water Tribe drawled.

"Ah! Of course, forgive my rudeness," said Zuko's uncle. "Nephew, Jet, this is Master Pakku of the Northern Water Tribe"

Zuko's eyes widened a little. "Oh," he said softly. "Um…I'm sorry. I didn't-"

Pakku waved his hand dismissively. "Your uncle explained. But please, let's keep the kidnapping and desecration to a minimum this time, hmm?"

Zuko blushed to the roots of his hair. "Yes, sir."

The conversation went on like this, but Jet quickly lost the thread of it. He found it harder and harder to follow all the references to places he hadn't been, people he didn't know, events he'd only heard about yesterday as a part of Zuko's rambling narrative.

For most of his life, Jet had thought of himself as an adaptable kind of guy. He rolled with the punches life threw at him, sprung back to his feet after every hit, ready for the next one even while the last still stung.

But this was too much. He didn't want to be here, talking to these people. He wanted to go sit in some dark corner and wait for everyone to leave.

Jet felt the back of his neck, newly shorn, and remembered what Smellerbee had said, what she and Longshot were obviously thinking now from the looks on their faces. There was a part he had to play, here; appearances to maintain. He grimaced and forced himself to pay attention.

"The rest of our forces have made camp just inside the outer wall," Piandao was saying. "Iroh said you might have found new allies for us, which is why we came to see you ourselves. You're welcome to bring as many men as you like with you."

Zuko frowned. "Bring them where?"

"To the camp," said Jeong Jeong gruffly. "You cannot say here. It's a miracle you haven't been discovered already."

"We can't just leave," said Zuko. "We live here! We have…there's a whole system-"

"Prince Zuko, I have as much affection for this place as anyone," said Iroh gently. "But it is just a place. Your men will be safer-"

"They're not my men!" Zuko snapped. "They're…well half of them are girls, for one thing, and I'm not… Uncle, it isn't up to me!"

"Making the tough decisions is part of being a true leader," said Piandao.

Zuko blinked. "What? No, you…that's not how it works." He frowned and moved closer to Jet, thumbs looped into the ties of the apron he still wore. "Jet's in charge here, not me."

Everyone's heads turned to Jet then, which he was used to at least. The Fire Nation men looked particularly surprised, and he took some satisfaction in that.

"I don't know what… Iroh told you," he said, "but here's how it is. These are my Freedom Fighters…" Here, he made a gesture that took in his friends beside the stairs, those sitting at the table, and everyone waiting in the other room. "…And we already have a plan. If you wanna help, fine, we could use it. But this is our city. Our fight. I don't mean any disrespect, but you can't just show up and boss us around. We know what we're doing."

Pakku arched a thin, white eyebrow. "Do you, now?"

"Yeah, we do," said Jet, feeling a little better with something concrete to push back against. "The Fire Nation's stretched real thin, even with the new troops that just came in from Yue Liang. They can't patrol the whole city, so they stick to what's important — guarding whatever supplies they've got left and keeping an eye on the locals. Ba Sing Se's pretty rigid, you know? This area we're in now, it's all shops and restaurants. The looters got tired of it months ago, and the squatters can find nicer beds somewhere else. So the Fire Nation doesn't bother with this part of town. And even if they did, we've got four lookouts posted all the time, six at night, more if there's fog. Even the kids know how to shake tails and change their routes around." He crossed his arms and glowered at each of the old men in turn. "We're not stupid. If we were we'd be dead by now."

"You would," Jeong Jeong agreed, infuriatingly smug. "But arrogance can be every bit as dangerous."

"Yeah, well, you'd know wouldn't you?" Jet snapped.

"I know young pups like you have no patience for discipline."

"You don't know a fucking thing about me," Jet snarled. "You Fire Nation, you're all so-"

Zuko didn't say anything. He only turned his head, just enough to catch Jet's eye, and frowned. The same quiet reminder he'd given a hundred times before, when it couldn't wait until the others were gone. A warning of having gone one step too far.

Jet closed his mouth and swallowed. "I'm sorry,' he said, after waiting several breaths. "Look. You can stay here if you want, we'll find room for you. But we're not leaving."

The old men shared a meaningful glance.

"The eclipse is in three days," said Jeong Jeong. "I suppose we can hold this position for that long."

Piandao looked thoughtfully around the kitchen. "It would be nice to sleep under a roof again," he said. "Perhaps in a bed."

"The tea is better here," said Iroh. He smiled, his gaze taking in Zuko and Jet at once. "As is the company."

Jet knew that he should smile back, but he couldn't. "I've got some things to take care of," he said. "Ping and…Zuko can run you through the plan. And the teams. Whatever you want."

Zuko touched his elbow, his brow creased with worry. "Jet-"

"No," Jet whispered, jerking away.

The hand dropped, and Zuko closed his eyes for a moment before turning to where Smellerbee and Longshot stood, silent and watchful. "Why don't you give him a hand," he said.

"Sure," said Smellerbee. She and Longshot walked across the kitchen, convincingly casual, pausing only to thank Iroh for the tea.

Jet followed them into the main room, through the canvas halls, to the far corner where they slept. But he went inside the little square of almost-privacy on his own. And then he sat there on the floor, head in his hands, until it didn't hurt to breathe anymore.

oOo

Smellerbee was arguing with someone. Jet had calmed down enough to hear it above the sound of his own pulse. He raised his head to listen, combing a hand back through his hair to push it out of his face. Conversation usually carried just fine through canvas but she was keeping her voice down, now, her urgent tone the most that Jet could make out.

The other half of the argument didn't seem to care about being heard, and as Jet listened his volume rose to perfect clarity. "No, this is crazy. This is crazy!" Jet recognized Gen's voice — he was young enough that it still cracked at the edges. More of Smellerbee's quiet counter followed, which Gen impatiently cut through. "I'm not gonna be a part of this shit!"

Longshot had stayed and waited beside the little room where Jet had hidden himself, crosslegged on the marble floor. When Jet pushed the canvas hangings aside and made his way along the hall, the other boy fell in behind him, a cautious quality to his silence.

Gen's space was around the corner, several down from the infirmary, and that was where Jet found him. He had a threadbare knapsack open on the floor and was shoving handfuls of clothing into it as Smellerbee looked on.

"I know it's a lot," she was saying. "But we've all been through worse than this."

"Then you should know better," Gen snapped. He crammed a wad of bandages in with the rest, then closed the sack with a violent yank on its ties. "You need to get your fucking priorities straight."

Jet chose that moment to take the last steps forward, casting a shadow across Gen's back. "There a problem here?"

Gen stood, his chin high and defiant, the sack slung over his shoulder. "Yeah, there's a problem," he said.

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"You know."

"Humor me."

Gen frowned, as if considering whether or not to cross this line. Jet could see the moment when he decided he didn't care, nostrils flared and frown deepening, knuckles white as his fist clenched around the strap of his bag. "I came here because you said we'd kick the Fire Nation out of Ba Sing Se," he said. "So what the hell is going on?"

Longshot moved to stand beside Smellerbee, his hand briefly touching her back. The usual chatter of soldiers and runners at ease had died down entirely, and Jet knew without looking that a dozen pairs of eyes were on them, peering down from the hammocks and through the gaps in the makeshift walls.

Jet did not want to have this conversation. He didn't want to have to explain, to Gen or anyone else. He felt undone as it was, like the world was turning itself inside-out. The only way he could handle this shit himself was to pretend it wasn't happening.

But Gen was questioning his judgement, directly and in front of all his men. Too late to back down, now. "They're here to help," said Jet. "You know how it works. If you can help you can stay."

"They're Fire Nation. Firebenders."

"I fucking know that," Jet snapped. "You got a point you wanna make?"

"What the hell is wrong with you!" Gen shouted, his tone a mess of adolescent breaks. "What, did the Dai Li brainwash you or something? You forget what those bastards did to us? He's the Prince of the fucking Fire Nation, you told us that!"

"Look," Jet ground out. "We're fucked on our own. These guys say they want to help, and we need them. So we'll let them help. That's just how it is, so get used to it or get out."

"You don't even know them!"

"Zuko does. He says they're all right."

"And you believe him?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I just do."

"Why?" Gen took a step forward, his eyes narrowed. "Because he said so? Just like he said his name was Li?" He wasn't shouting anymore, but Jet had no doubt even the kids in the rafters could hear him.

If not for them, Jet would've punched him. He crossed his arms, fingers digging into his biceps. "Let's just leave him out of this," he said, low and dangerous.

"I would love to leave him out of this! Do you…fuck, do you even remember what he did?" Gen threw the bag down on the floor again and tugged furiously at the neck of his tunic, pulling it down to expose the mass of pus-soaked bandages beneath.

The Firebenders had cornered Gen at the Eastern Gate, cut him off from Wang and Dusty and backed him up against a wall. Jet had watched Xue Sheng clean and wrap the wounds later, a mess of blackened flesh that stretched across Gen's chest and down the length of his arm. He'd never be able to fight with that arm properly again.

"Look at this!" Gen shouted, flecks of spit on his lips. "He fucked us over, Jet. He fucked you over."

Jet concentrated on keeping his voice even and his expression calm, conscious of every muscle in his face, the quiver of strain at his brow. The eclipse was three days away. He couldn't lose it now. "He made a mistake," Jet said. "We all make mistakes, Gen. You're making one right now."

"Am I? Really?" Gen laughed, a jagged high-pitched chuckle of disbelief. "He left us there to die. And maybe if you stopped thinking with your dick you'd see this was a really fucking bad idea!"

Jet felt pretty damn sure he was going to hit Gen, then. His hand had already curled into a fist, and he would've smashed it into Gen's jaw if Smellerbee hadn't stepped forward to place herself between them.

"I think you made your point, Gen," she said.

Gen snatched up his bag again, his eyes still on Jet, dark and full of rage. "You're gonna get all these people killed," he muttered.

"I'll do what I have to," said Jet. He could hear his own voice shake, as much as he fought to steady it. "You don't like it, you can leave."

Gen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I was just about to."

He didn't go through the kitchen. He walked to the huge double-doors at the front of the main room, and the others watched silently as he lifted the heavy bar that kept them closed. Sunshine spilled across the carpet as he pushed the doors open, walked down the marble steps and out across the open square.

Jet had a wild, fleeting urge to run — past Gen, past the square, past the walls. To keep running until he felt grass under his feet and the air no longer reeked of coal and ash; until the sun was blotted out by leaves instead of overhanging roofs. Back to a place he didn't hate, where he still knew who he was and what the hell he was doing.

He walked stiffly to the door and pulled it closed, disused hinges creaking, and the bar fell back into place with a dull clunk of wood against iron. Smellerbee and Longshot were the only two people Jet could see, but he could hear a dozen sets of lungs working, a scattering of muffled whispers. Above him, hammocks creaked as their occupants shifted.

"I want the soldiers geared up and ready to train in fifteen minutes," he said. "We'll be out back, so I want the runners to set up a quarter-mile perimeter. Any sign of a patrol and we'll come in again, otherwise we'll go 'til we drop. If I hear any of you skipped out I'll send you after Gen to keep him company. That clear?"

He didn't wait for a reply and wasn't interested in one besides. He ducked into his friends' little corner again, long enough to strap on his armor and collect his swords. When he reemerged the others were well into their own preparations, though Smellerbee and Longshot stood in the hall, patiently waiting their turn to change behind the hangings.

Longshot met his eyes, and Jet flinched. "I'm fine," he said. He strode across the room, soldiers and runners scurrying out of his way, toward the open door to the kitchen.

Piandao and Xue Sheng were at the table, a Pai Sho game in progress between them. The older man's sword had been carefully leaned against his chair, and when Jet reached for it Piandao watched but didn't move to interfere.

"You know how to use this?" Jet asked, the slight deliberate.

"Well enough," said Piandao, his mildness not quite masking the steel beneath. Xue Sheng glanced mutely between them.

Jet tossed the sword back to him, and Piandao caught it effortlessly, the blade hardly rattling in its sheath. "Show me," said Jet.

"Students of the sword travel thousands of miles to seek my guidance," Piandao said conversationally. "Few prove to be worthy of it."

"Worthy, huh?" Jet allowed himself a sarcastic grin. "Yeah, well. I don't expect some Fire Nation master to think I'm worth much of anything."

"The way of the sword doesn't belong to any one nation," said Piandao. "A man's worthiness is tied to his heart, his mind and his spirit, not the soil on which he was born."

"We don't care much about worthiness around here," said Jet. "We care about getting shit done. So you can either help me train my men or you can find someplace else to sleep tonight."

Jet would've preferred the old man to get angry at him, and Xue Sheng clearly expected as much. But Piandao remained serenely unmoved as he pushed back from the table, the scabbard still in his hand. "Then let's begin," he said.

oOo

The square in front of the Jasmine Dragon was next to useless, too wide and exposed and easy to watch from a distance. The narrow streets and alleyways behind the teahouse were where the Freedom Fighters spent most of their time outdoors. They could train there unobserved and unmolested, and the terrain was more like their usual claustrophobic battlegrounds.

Jet could hear voices and the occasional roar of flame somewhere south of the kitchen door. So he turned and walked directly north, toward a courtyard he knew was just beyond the next building.

He'd left Longshot and Smellerbee in charge of the soldiers who didn't fight with blades, and told Xue Sheng to organize the shifts of lookouts. Wang would make sure the rest had their gear together by the time he got back. Normally he would've overseen all these things himself, but today he didn't think he could stay still for that long — every nerve buzzed with a need for movement, and his fingers itched to take hold of his swords and feel the sweat-soaked leather against his palms.

Piandao kept pace as they walked. He'd left his robes in the kitchen, revealing the long, black tunic he wore beneath, slits up either side showing flashes of red trousers. "You can't be the only swordsman," he said.

"We'll join the others later," said Jet. "I wanna know what I'm dealing with first."

Piandao chuckled, which Jet found completely infuriating. "Whatever suits you," he said as they stepped into the courtyard.

Jet knew what the others must be thinking, the questions they'd whisper as they got ready to train. Asking them to accept Zuko had been bad enough — at least they knew him, had some reason to trust his good intentions. But Piandao and the two Firebenders were strangers, and Jet still wasn't sure he trusted them himself. Of course Gen wasn't the only one who thought he was crazy. He felt crazy, standing in the courtyard with his swords in hand, moments before a friendly duel with a Fire Nation soldier.

He'd lost one man already today. How many more would follow? How many could he lose before the balance tipped and the gamble no longer paid off? How many of his people were each of these intruders worth? He'd betrayed his countrymen before, not so long ago — traded them for a chance to drive the Fire Nation from his valley. He'd sworn never to make that great a sacrifice again. Yet here he was, abusing the trust of his men out of some desperate, tenuous hope that the ends would prove to be worth it.

One goal had lain at the heart of his life, driven him through the worst of times: the promise of one day making them pay for all they'd done. The Fire Nation had raped and burned his country. The Fire Nation had stolen his family from him. The Fire Nation had passed beyond the point of redemption a hundred years ago, and every one of them carried the blood of murderers in their veins. He had always believed this. He'd slit the throats of boy soldiers and tortured old men with this truth as his only comfort. Anything was worth driving them out; they deserved whatever he did to them.

Piandao drew his long, straight blade, then crouched down with it pointed at Jet's chest, the sheath held out behind him.

Jet needed no other invitation. A snarl tore from his throat as he ran forward, hooked swords low at his sides until he jerked the right blade up toward Piandao's neck, the whole force of his momentum behind it. Piandao's expression remained unchanged as he knocked it away, his sheath coming up to block the next swipe, catching the hook of Jet's blade and twisting it smoothly out of his hand. Jet's arm darted out, catching it before it flew beyond his reach, but in that moment of distraction Piandao's sword found its mark at the side of Jet's throat.

"If you want to strike your opponent, let him strike you first," said Piandao, perfectly calm. "The moment you succeed in luring him to strike at you, you have already succeeded in striking him back."

Jet's reply was to plant his foot in the center of Piandao's chest, pushing the older man back a few stumbling paces as he firmed up his grip on his own blades. Piandao had barely retaken his stance when Jet rushed at him again, roaring in fury as his hooks carved shining arcs through the air. Still using the sheath as a second sword, Piandao deflected each attack with a minimum of effort, feet planted firmly on the cobblestones however much Jet tried to force him back.

"A warrior's mind should be the master of his spirit," said Piandao, voice wholly unchanged. "In swordsmanship, a solid stance may be said to serve as the mind, and the exchange of blows the spirit." He paused to duck beneath a wild swipe of Jet's blade. "He must learn to keep his spirit under tight control, rather than be dragged along behind it."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Jet growled through clenched teeth, the crescent blade along his knuckles hurtling toward Piandao's face.

Piandao leaned back out of reach, then used the sheath to push Jet's arm past its natural follow-through, causing him to overbalance. "It means you should watch your footwork," he said, now waiting patiently for Jet to find his stance again.

Jet knew he shouldn't let this get to him. Piandao was a master sword fighter and he was being sloppy. But he was tired of staying calm, tired of being so fucking responsible, and as he fought his blades whirled at the boundaries of his control, on the edge of recklessness as he bellowed his frustration. He was good enough to know Piandao was going easy on him, exerting only the effort needed to turn Jet's blades away, and that knowledge fanned the flames that Gen's doubt had kindled. He wanted to cut this man. He wanted to smash his hilt into those serene, chiseled features, and watch the blood run down his face.

But Piandao didn't want that, and his desires were the arbiter today. The sheath made contact with the backs of Jet's knees, and as he fought to stay balanced Piandao's sword threaded through both hooks, pushed them in a smooth, high arc and smashed them down, pinned such that Jet would have to break his own blades to get them loose.

"Fine!" Jet snarled, letting go of the hilts so that his swords clattered to the ground. "Fine you win, all right? You win. I hope you fucking enjoyed it."

The older man pulled his sword from the ground, his eyes still on Jet as he sheathed it. "I'm a teacher," he said quietly. "If you learned something, then I'm satisfied."

"Whatever." Jet lifted the hilts with his toe, snatched them up and hung them carelessly at his belt. "Just…whatever. You can run the fucking drills, I don't care." He looked up, jaw aching from being clamped so tight, and saw that Piandao was watching him. "What?"

"You're angry," said Piandao, in the same tone one might use to discuss the weather.

"No shit," Jet snapped.

"No wonder you fought so poorly."

"Fuck you," said Jet, savoring the words. "I don't need some smug, Fire Nation asshole telling me how to fight. I've killed a hundred guys just like you."

"I don't doubt it," said Piandao, smiling a little. "I, too, was young and angry once. We Fire Nation assholes have a particular talent for it." Jet was too pissed to laugh, but the joke was unexpected enough to keep him from storming off. After a pause, Piandao went on. "It's easy to forget how much the world has changed in the last hundred years. Sozin's legacy did more damage than you might realize. He razed the Air Temples, started the war-"

"I know," said Jet. "I'm not stupid. I know who Sozin is."

Piandao waited a moment, as if to be sure Jet was finished. Then he continued as if there had been no interruption. "Sozin also lead his own countrymen astray in many ways," he said. "He told us we were the greatest of all Nations. He said that any means were justified in the pursuit of our glory. And always, even when he was newly crowned, he equated fury with strength."

"Not really seeing what this has to do with me," Jet muttered.

"Any man may be tempted to give in to his own anger," said Piandao. "It flares hot and fierce. It feels strong when it's all we have to ground us. But it burns quickly. And it leaves nothing but ashes behind. The true masters teach us that our inner fire can be fueled by love and hope as well as hate."

"I'm not a Firebender," Jet spat.

"You're a warrior," said Piandao. "All of us have a flame that burns in our hearts. A force that drives us." Piandao sighed and looked up at the sky, a narrow strip of blue dusted with clouds. "I realize I've tried your patience. But may I offer one further piece of advice?"

"Can I stop you?"

"Yes."

Feeling foolish, Jet paused then said, "Go on." An old man's words couldn't hurt him.

"The face of the enemy shifts and changes," said Piandao, still watching the clouds. "I would suggest that you think less about who you're fighting and more about what you're fighting for. "

"I'm fighting to save this city," said Jet.

Piandao met Jet's eyes again, his expression somber. "So am I."

They passed the short walk back in silence, neither man taking the lead. Wang and the others were waiting in a tight knot by the kitchen door, dressed in full armor with their swords strapped in place. They looked much younger at times like this, like children playing at war. But Jet was used to that by now. Things had always been this way for him.

"We don't have time for drills," he said, facing Wang but pitched for everyone too hear. "I want you to split up into pairs and fight some practice matches so Piandao here can see what you're made of. He's gonna help me kick you guys into shape so you don't end up dead in a few days. Got it?"

"Got it," said Wang, the others murmuring along.

But as they followed Piandao back to the courtyard, Jet leaned against the teahouse dumpster, eyes on the alley south of them.

"Jet?" Wang had hung back, watching him with a little frown.

"I'll come find you later," he said, grateful that Wang knew better than to ask any more questions. She jogged off after the others, and once she was out of sight he pushed off from the dumpster and started walking in the opposite direction.

The sounds of Firebending were gone but the voices were still loud enough to follow, mostly the harsh barks of that guy with the hair — Jeong Jeong, Jet remembered. His pace slowed as he got closer, like he was walking through mud. He stopped entirely just before the last bend.

"What are you doing, puffing your chest out like that?" Jeong Jeong was saying, his words a fierce staccato. "That kind of breathing is for battle. Pull the breath down into your gut. Fill your lungs."

Jet leaned forward, just far enough to see the next stretch of alleyway. Zuko was shirtless and squatting down close to the ground, knees out and feet as far apart as his shoulders, all his attention focused on some small object he held. Jeong Jeong stood behind and to one side of him, hands clasped at the small of his back.

"This exercise is for beginners," Zuko grumbled. "I don't see why I have to -"

"Concentrate on your leaf!" Jeong Jeong snapped. "Your technique is a disaster. You have barely practiced in months."

"But I-!"

"Concentrate! I don't know what you have been doing for these past three years, but it is a miracle you have not destroyed yourself by now. Or someone else," he added ominously. "So. We return to the basics. Perhaps you will learn them properly this time."

Jet backed away from the corner and leaned against the wall, palms flat on sun-warmed bricks. He closed his eyes and made himself listen. He had to get used to this.

He didn't move until he heard someone coming — from the direction of the teahouse, though in no particular hurry. He opened his eyes when the footsteps paused. The man from the Water Tribe, Pakku, was a few paces away, regarding him thoughtfully. "Waiting for someone?" he asked, his tone dry.

"Kind of," said Jet. He sighed and turned his head, peering around the wall again. Neither Zuko nor Jeong Jeong seemed to have heard them. "Just figuring some stuff out."

"You've chosen an odd place to think," said Pakku.

"I'm an odd guy."

"Clearly."

That could easily have been the end of it — Jet hadn't given him any reason to stay. But Pakku seemed to sense that something else remained unsaid. He waited as Jet watched Zuko squat and breathe in the alleyway, a thin line of smoke rising from the leaf clasped in his fingers. Eventually Jet looked away again.

"How do you stand it?" he murmured.

Pakku arched a white eyebrow. "Stand what, exactly?"

"They're Firebenders," said Jet. "They destroyed your sister tribe. How can you…I don't get how you can be okay with that."

"They're men," said Pakku. "And they're my friends. Old friends, if not always convenient ones."

"But they're Firebenders. That guy was an Admiral, right? I mean…" Jet ground his palms into his eyes and drew a long, unsteady breath. "Shit, the things he must have done…"

"And I suppose you've never done anything you're ashamed of?" Pakku drawled.

"That was different. I only did what I had to."

"I suspect the soldiers you killed would see it differently," said Pakku. He sighed, and when he spoke again, there was an odd quality to his voice — something like exasperation. "Do you know why that boy is still alive for you to stand here worrying about?" he asked. Jet knew it was pointless to try and deny that was what he was doing, so he didn't, and after a moment Pakku went on. "At the North Pole, he tried to kidnap the Avatar. Dragged him out across the ice in a middle of a blizzard."

"Yeah, I know," said Jet quietly. "He told me."

"When the Avatar's friends came, they wanted to leave him behind. He'd been chasing them for months by then. Life would've been much easier if they'd left him there to die alone in the snow."

"Yeah," said Jet. Zuko had been pretty vague regarding that day, and until now Jet hadn't really thought about it. Now he pictured Zuko lying facedown in the drifts, blue with cold and perfectly still, and shivered. "I guess…Aang wasn't having it."

"No," said Pakku. "Aang wasn't having it. So they dragged their worst enemy up into their bison's saddle and carried him back to the city."

Jet's arms fell back to his sides. "Maybe Aang's a better man than me, then," he murmured.

"Someone has to be the first to forgive," said Pakku, all his dry levity gone. "Aang chose to break that cycle. And so did I."

Jet looked down at his boots; the blades of grass between the paving stones. Behind him, Jeong Jeong was lecturing Zuko again — it seemed his feet were too close together and his breathing still too high in his chest. Jet could almost imagine they were talking about something else. Something innocent and safe. "Why are you telling me this?" he whispered.

"You asked a question," said Pakku. "All I did was answer."

Jet stood with his head bowed as Pakku walked past him, not turning the corner but continuing on to some unspecified errand beyond it. Jeong Jeong had finished his lecture, and the alleyway was eerily quiet. Jet could hear Zuko's breath if he held his own, a deep, even rasp drawn through his nose and exhaled between pursed lips. Some distance away, Wang and the others had started their bouts, the metallic clang of swords echoing off the walls.

Zuko's head snapped up as soon as Jet came into view, a broad grin spreading across his face. "Jet-!" he called, but whatever he'd meant to say was cut off when his leaf burst into flame. He dropped it with a yelp, flapping his singed fingers.

"Concentrate!" Jeong Jeong snapped, whacking Zuko soundly on the back of the head. He pulled another leaf from his sleeve, burnt a small hole in its center with his fingers and handed it down to his student.

"Sorry," Zuko muttered, though his eyes still followed Jet as he walked a bit farther along the alleyway and sat down on a set of low, stone steps.

"Do you need something?" Jeong Jeong asked, clearly irritated.

"No," said Jet, with a nonchalance he didn't feel. "I was just gonna watch for a while."

"Fine," said Jeong Jeong. The matter settled, he returned his attention to Zuko. "Now. Remember that fire is hungry. It wants to consume whatever it can, to burn until nothing remains. You must push back against that hunger. Force the flame to starve. You must become its master. If you can prevent it from devouring this leaf, you take first step toward denying it your soul as well."

"Yes, Master Jeong Jeong," Zuko muttered, finally tearing his eyes from Jet and refocusing on the new leaf between his hands.

Jet drew his legs up against his chest, watching the faintly glowing borders of the hole Jeong Jeong had made, and forced himself to think about it. This was Firebending. Li's name was Zuko, and he was a Firebender. He'd melted the chains under the lake. He'd captured flame with his swords in the warehouse. He kept this leaf from burning.

Jet lifted his eyes to Zuko's face, delicate features tense with the effort of his task, the scar a strange wasteland of expression. He swallowed as his gaze moved along Zuko's body, over wiry muscle drawn taut beneath skin that shone with sweat. He remembered how that skin had tasted. He remembered how it had felt as it slid against his own.

Li hadn't died beneath the lake. Li had never existed. Zuko was the boy that Jet had loved, always himself whatever name he used. Zuko was standing here now, alive and eager and beautiful. And even though he had lied, even though he was the Fire Lord's son, Jet still wanted him. He wasn't sure he had ever stopped.

Jet closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his knees. There wasn't much time left. He was going to have to decide what to do, before fate and circumstance decided for him.

oOoOo