Hit N Run

Summary – Zuko, the troubled firstborn of a ruthless gangster. Aang, the mischievous young vigilante. They meet on a rainy night, and their story opens the clouds.

Warning – This story includes violence, gang crime, rape, and homosexual relations.

Disclaimer – Nothing of ATLA belongs to me.

At 6:32 in the morning, Aang returns to the kitchen window just in time to see Katara emptying the dishwashers.

Moments like these make his life go a little more slowly, feel a little less bloody, and a little more real. He watches, silent for a moment, looking over all the clean cabinets and scrubbed tiles. Katara absent-mindedly rubs the sleep out of her eyes as she works, always stacking up plates neatly on the counter before returning them to their cabinets. Only when she goes to the window to water the plants does she see Aang's masked face plastered against the glass.

"Aang!" She screams when she sticks her head out the door. "Come inside, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Morning Katara," Aang smiles, ripping off the mask to reveal his strikingly young face. "Coffee?"

She picks up his mask and shoves it in his hands, looking around to make sure no one has just seen Aang walked in decked out in spandex. "You're too young for that," Katara scolds, disappearing for a moment to the laundry room and returning with a t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. "Besides, I have to brew it thin for the morning crowd. We're beginning to run out."

"I could fundraise for you!"

"You could put these on for me," Katara corrects, throwing the spare clothes at him. She takes a moment to observe him. Grinning as always, but slower than usual. Slightly red in the eyes. "You've been out all night again, haven't you?"

Aang avoids the question altogether. "We could get all the kids to put on an act. A performance! And people would buy tickets and pay money, and that'll keep the soup kitchen going for a long time—"

"Aang, why do you keep doing this to yourself?" Katara demands. "It'll only get you hurt!"

"Oh, I'm fine," Aang says brightly. "Look, you can check. No bruises, see?"

Katara gives him a cross look. "You know," She says, "I still don't understand why you have to go out like this at all. The police can take care of it."

"The police can't cover everything."

"You don't know that," Katara argues desperately, "because you go around doing your own thing."

"Katara," Aang snaps for the first time, "Look. All I know is that at about two in the morning, the police on night shift were busy ticketing a bunch of teenagers racing each other home, and the rest of the patrols were taking a nice nap in their cozy leather car seats. And with all that, I saw someone trying to fight off four big guys at once. Are you saying I shouldn't take care of that?"

She closes her eyes after listening to his rant, finally saying quietly, "I'm just saying you should take care of yourself too."

Aang's hard grey eyes soften a little, but not enough to agree with her. Katara hands him a juice box. He accepts it without a word and goes upstairs to his bunk.

At 6:32 in the morning, Zuko tries to sneak in through the back of his uncle's tea shop.

It's not entirely successful, especially when he trips over a sack of rice and makes a small ruckus. It would've been fine if he didn't hear quiet humming from the kitchens. Zuko swears inwardly when he hears his uncle call, "Zuko? Is that you?" And that's it. He dashes upstairs.

Two minutes later, Zuko returns showered and nearly refreshed. "Good morning," He greets levelly.

"And where have you been all night?" Iroh asks, smiling (skeptically).

"Early morning jogging. Just got back." Zuko grabs a roll and starts chewing, having found out a long time ago that it's a great excuse to avoid talking. And he can't exactly look his uncle in the eye right now.

Then, Iroh pauses. "You have a cut on your cheek."

"Ran into a branch," Zuko says, mouth muffled.

"And you have scrapes on your arms," Iroh continues, frowning. Zuko allows the silence to be prolonged, hoping his uncle would just forget about it. "Lift up your shirt."

"What?" He squawks, half-eaten roll still in his open mouth.

"Zuko, let me see," Iroh says seriously, and for a very, very short moment, he reminds Zuko of his father. Sullenly, he lifts up the hem of his shirt, revealing the bruises coloring his abdomen and chest. They've bloomed into a lovely purplish-yellow.

"Who did this?" Iroh demands, sounding outraged.

"Well…" Zuko begins grudgingly, "Azula—"

"Your sister?"

"Yes—no! Not only her—let me explain…" And Zuko coughs up last night's story like puke: the embarrassing encounter with Ty Lee, the bar fight with Azula, and finally, the unhappy run-in with the four unnamed.

"And they just left you there?" Iroh asks, brows furrowed. "Are you telling me they ambushed you for no reason and just left?"

"No," Zuko says honestly, "I think they were attempting kidnap…but…someone saved me."

Iroh raises his eyebrows. "Who?"

He looks up from the ground. Iroh stares at him imploringly. "…I don't know," Zuko manages.

Iroh seems to understand, and doesn't argue after this, simply sighs and sends him to bed. Jin to take the morning shift, and Zuko would do best to avoid any clubs that Azula and her lackeys might frequent (which, he stresses, means all of them). Zuko trudges upstairs, collapsing on his wearily-framed bed and wondering why his uncle bothers to stay so nice to him.

Aang sleeps on top of a triple bunk bed that Katara's father made, once upon a time. He's shared the bunk with three other triple bunks in a crowded room with nothing else but sheets and posters for his entire life. As the other children wake up, ages ranging from six to his own, fifteen, he feels the questions coming.

"Aang! Did you beat up bad guys last night again?"

"How many were there?"

"Did you do that really cool knot trick to tie them up?"

"Why didn't you bring me with you?"

"Everyone, Aang needs some sleep," Katara says as she enters the room. "And a little less encouragement. Come on, it's breakfast time!"

Aang watches her lead them out, despite their groaning and complaining. He smiles sleepily and pulls his quilt over himself.

The homeless shelter at which Katara works has been his home for as long as he can remember. And he does remember the wonderful woman who used to run it, with young Katara toddling along at her side, always determined to help. Only a few years older than Aang, Katara often acts as if she's got decades on him, especially after that wonderful woman passed away. And ever since then, Katara pulls more than her own weight trying to keep the place going, along with a handful of volunteers from the university.

They grew up together, learning and playing, mostly playing on Aang's part. There was a time when he went to school, because Katara's mother liked for the children to get an education. He didn't enjoy it, but he did play tricks on the bullies who used to push smaller kids off swings and trip them on their way to the bathroom. Innocent, yes, malicious, yes, but violent, no. He simply felt a joy at seeing their shoe laces tied and their lunches stolen to hand out as treats behind their backs.

They got older. But so did Aang. They got stronger, but Aang got faster.

Before he knew it, he was copying moves he saw in movies to defend himself. Scary part was he was good at it, great even, enough to ward them off and become the playground's protector in a sense. It earned him detentions and many talks with the principle, so finally Katara's mother had a firm talk with him and he was forbidden to fight on school premises. Aang listened. He took it to the streets instead. Fight fire with humor.

Replace bullets with paint ammo. Glue burglar's hands to doorknobs. Tie them up like a bundle of wildflowers and knock them cold just long enough to be discovered. Defeat them doesn't mean kill them. It doesn't even mean hurt them.

The door bangs open from downstairs, and Aang hears Sokka's loud voice crow good morning. Footsteps in the hallway signal the adults coming downstairs. Rarely do they sleep here unless their situation is especially dreary, but when they do Aang certainly doesn't mind. Haru and his dad have spent the week doing repairs on the house to compensate for their stay, and the couple with the newborn baby allows everyone to play with her. Hope, her name is.

Aang hears Haru and Sokka laugh loudly as Katara yells at Sokka about something. Finally, he steps upstairs in full police uniform and grins at Aang. "She mad at you too?"

"Very," Aang mumbles, cheek against pillow. He surveys Sokka, taking in the cap, badge, and everything in between. "I thought you only had to wear that in the field."

"I'm always in the field, Aang," Sokka whispers theatrically. "There's danger at every twist and turn, and I am always prepar—OW!"

Aang laughs and retreats as Sokka bends to nurse his pinched nose. "You're too goddamn fast," he grumbles, albeit good-naturedly. "So, how'd last night go. Anything good?"

"Four guys jumped a loner at around two," Aang says lightly, "I think he was intoxicated. I stayed around to make sure he got home alright, though."

Sokka shakes his head disbelievingly. "Should've let my dad take care of that, man."

"He was kept busy," Aang shrugs. "He's very good at his job."

"And I'm better," Sokka smirks, mock-saluting him. "See you around, Aang."

"Don't accidentally shoot yourself, Sokka." Aang closes his eyes to the sight of Sokka sticking his tongue out adamantly. He sleeps comfortably. Who needs school, when you had Katara cooking breakfast and Sokka playing policeman?

Zuko wonders how it's possible to have nightmares with the sunlight pouring into his bedroom.

He feels someone shaking him awake just as he hears Ozai's voice—I've had enough of this trash, you take care of him—and those cold, faceless men—partners of his father's, cronies, allies, hit men, whatever they were, they were all there—about time we can get rid of him—doesn't know shit about this business—let's fuck him like a girl, see if he's useful for something—

"Zuko!" Jin gasps when Zuko attempts to fight her off. "Zuko, it's me! It's Jin!"

"What?" Zuko says wildly, finally focusing on brown-haired, brown-eyed Jin and the hot cup of tea in her hands. "Jin? What are you doing here?"

"Iroh said you weren't feeling well," Jin said, setting the tea down. "Let me see." And there could only be one thing she was talking about.

Zuko groans. "No." He really doesn't feel like showing his memento to another pair of prying eyes.

"I have salve with me, and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Okay fine."

Jin smirks, knowing that he's recalling the time when she rammed the wet stuff down his pants when he refused to let her patch up a wound on his arm. Zuko pulls the covers off and lifts his shirt up hesitantly. Jin's eyes widen.

"Oh wow, that's awful." She reaches out with two fingers and presses gently. Zuko winces but doesn't make a sound. "I'll make this quick, all the university kids are coming in before class."

"Class," Zuko mutters, and then groans. "Shit." Another 10:30 Medieval War Tactics that he's already missed. Jin watches him scowl at himself.

"You know," She says, smoothing the salve over his chest, "I always had this theory. You want to hear it? I always thought that my boss' nephew was a really smart guy. Despite making mistakes, skipping class, I always thought he'd make it." Jin finishes and presses firmly for good measure. "Please don't prove me wrong."

Zuko stares at her on her way out as she says good-bye and begins her job. She doesn't even know the half of it.

Yeah, Jin knows about the rough talk and less-than-desirable company Zuko sometimes keeps. She knows about his record, stacked with felonies and petty thievery, though Iroh always manages to convince him to plead guilty and take the community service and jail sentence with pride. But she doesn't know why.

He needs the safety that only his father can provide. If only he would look at him with something other than disgust, and maybe with trust and pride, as he looks at Azula. There's that burning need Zuko feels, to do something as wild and ruthless as Azula's dirty work, to prove himself and meet his father eye to eye. Only when that time comes would Ozai shield him from the men. Because right now, they take him for shit. And that, he shudders, is the reality of his nightmare.