Breakfast in their residence is quiet, though the unease has dulled somewhat. The infant coos and looks around in her high chair, preoccupied with whatever pretty flights of fancy adorn the minds of children.
Korra sips (not that she really sips, she slurps—at least according to her prissy husband) her tea, resisting the urge to choke. While she appreciates their shared tastes in food and culture (despite his grimace-laden assertions that her culture is somewhat lacking), her husband fails when it comes to making tea.
She considers joking about it, but she relents when Tarrlok tells her that he makes it to alleviate her stress. Korra suffers in silence, an unbeckoned grin accosting her features. They are speaking about their child's future, and he questions how being the Avatar factors into her offspring's ability to bend or not. She shrugs.
Holding her porcelain cup, tracing the rim idly, Korra says, "She might be a waterbender." Light spills through the elaborate, azure curtains. Tarrlok is nothing if not the pompous, self-assured, ideal interior designer. Korra never thought she'd find kitchen counters to be beautiful, but the marble has the most intricate patterns imbued within it. And the dining ware?
Korra guesses that a man who lives alone must have enough time on his hands to arrange such frivolous, particular details. The oil paintings of jagged ledges and tundras, the furs that she never dares to show Naga (not that she's allowed in the home—well, like Korra cares what Tarrlok prefers) are enough to make her homesick. Her parents attended the wedding, but she never confided in them about her pregnancy until a few months after the birth. Better late than never, right?
His glance begs for an elaboration. "Her . . ." Korra doesn't want to say "her real dad." That would just be cruel. "The guy I was with was a waterbender."
"You have impeccable tastes."
Korra frowns. "Shut up." Her expression grows less pleased when there's a certain glint in Tarrlok's eyes. That thing that means that he either knows something or is about to release a really bad joke.
"I suppose it's true," he says slyly, "that opposites attract."
"What?"
"I never thought you'd be attracted to a wolf-bat. Though for our daughter's sake, I hope she doesn't inherit his taste in hairstyles."
Korra's eyes widen in horror. He recoils in distaste as the remaining tea in his wife's mouth sprays into the air violently. "T-Tahno? No, no, no, no."
Tarrlok smirks, shrugging off his reflexive wincing toward his wife's consistently poor table manners. It's somewhat endearing. Resting his palms against the tablecloth, he says wryly, "No?" He smothers any frantic curiosity.
"No, no, no." Her brows furrow, and she shakes her head with this grim seriousness that he never ceases to find amusing. "Never. Ever."
Hm. He's glad that, if she turns out to be a waterbender, their daughter won't have Yakone's blood. Tarrlok can still train her without worrying about breaching that topic. Any waterbender can learn bloodbending, but none as easily as those with a predilection in their blood.
"He was . . . older," Korra tells him, the words reluctant. Tarrlok meets her eyes, but says nothing. "He was just this man I met at the park. We didn't get along at first. He told me he thought I was arrogant." She swallows thickly. "'Uncaring,' he said. But later—later he thought it was both sad and nice how I was accepting despite not knowing his past. I guess it's like how Mako kind of shoved me off when I first met him, except with this guy I didn't feel stupid.
"Weird. He was old and more experienced, and I lived in that compound my entire life. But I didn't feel like a child with him. He would listen to me, seriously listen. He never really smiled; when he did, it was kinda cold. But I liked it. I liked how he didn't try to open up uncomfortable subjects when I was nervous or sad." The child babbles, and Korra gives her daughter a tired smile, her eyes half-lidded. "He just listened . . ." Her voice trails off.
Tarrlok regards her uncertainly. She's young, and it's not like he expects Korra to be entirely satisfied with marriage. He'd be a fool to think that one man can sate someone so full of energy, especially since his own virility won't be much to fawn over in the next decade or so. Even if her impulsiveness tempers, she'll still be a young person with basic needs. Still with an entire life ahead of her. And he'll be inadequate as even a piddly form of entertainment.
So he isn't surprised that she's still smitten with this mysterious man. Part of him wants to say that a truly good man wouldn't leave her to fend for herself. However, he doesn't know the context of their relationship, and it's not his right to dictate what Korra should and shouldn't do. She's willful. He tries to get her to act with decorum, but he won't force the matter because he doesn't want her to fight him, especially when they're finally on amicable terms. When he has the family he never dreamed he'd be able to afford with his ruddied conscience. Furthermore, Tarrlok admires that aspect of Korra, her fire. He'd be bored to death if he didn't have her rampaging through the halls.
Even with the Equalists quieting over the years—well, that means that they must be more careful than ever. If Amon ever dares to hurt their child—his daughter—
"Does 'this guy' have a name?" Tarrlok keeps his voice even.
"I haven't seen him in forever." Korra looks at him, her shoulders drooping, and the smile on her face is almost fond. "It doesn't matter."