Tarrlok can comfortably compare watching his wife eat to witnessing two satomobiles collide. It is a tragically horrific, yet intriguing event.
"Do you ever fear of choking?" he asks, the lines in his forehead deepening in exaggerated concern.
Her elbows on the table, soup dripping down her chin, Korra beams. So free of inhibitions; he envies her. (Oh, and she's rather gaseous as well, yet she wonders why he opens the bedroom windows at night to allow the cleaner toxins of the inside to mask the odor.) When he was young, Tarrlok only had moments of ease prior to the discovery that he could bend. Now he maintains the image of a new man, even though he feels small. With all of his boasting, with all of his decrees, he's only a single person trying to rally together a divided city.
Korra rubs her nose thoughtfully.
In the ugly, frantic heat of midsummer, Tarrlok awakes with sweat pooled in his underarms, dampening his forehead and sticking his skin to his pillow. As usual, it's hours before the sunrise. He once surmised that his lack of decent sleep was derived from a waterbender's connection with the moon. It was rejuvenating, yet he never had problems sleeping until Noatak ran away. He never had these dreams.
The bedroom floor is littered with pillows. Much to the dismay and endless frustration of the cleaning staff, Korra flings any superfluous pillows out of the bed, and she is never mindful of who will pick them up. She never intentionally irks those under their roof—except for Tarrlok himself—but she can be inconsiderate in many regards. At the compound, she always had people to clean up after her, to fulfill all of her needs. Not that Tarrlok is particularly generous.
Surprisingly, she is not beside him. It is a large bed, but he can tell when she is not present. How? It's best not to elaborate.
He rolls over to see her side of the bed with its sheets twisted and in disarray. Korra's standing at a window in her day clothes, her back to him. (They often sleep with their backs to each other.) That's another habit of hers that somewhat bemuses him: she won't change into something else when she goes to bed. All of the accumulated sweat and grime of the training hours—he shudders just imagining it. It took awhile just for her to ease her hair out of those ponytails. (He doesn't necessarily like how she wears her hair because it reminds him too much of Noatak, but he won't say anything.)
Something about "being prepared." Despite her lack of trouble falling asleep, he's had to shake her awake when she mumbles feverishly about Amon, thrashing and begging in her nightmares.
When Tarrlok sits up, the mattress groaning beneath him, she turns. He can't see her expression. "Did I wake you up?" Korra murmurs.
"No, Korra." How oddly civil it sounds, to address her as "Korra." When did she cease being "Avatar Korra" in his mind?
It's nothing, he wagers. It's simply less of a hassle to call her by her name.
"I didn't think my suggestion that you should rejoin my task force would keep you up all night." Tarrlok slips out of bed and approaches her, his eyes burning from unrest.
Korra's eyes reveal nothing as she replies, "Don't flatter yourself, bub."
The window is opened, letting in tepid air. Soon, Tarrlok might sneeze his ("disproportionate," according to Korra) nose off as the pollen whisks in. Their house and his satomobile were covered in pollen in the morning, and his wife asked why he had his preening butt in a big, fat wad over it.
Korra then bent down and sniffed the hood of his car, much to his mild confusion. Even after a few years, she's unused to the city. The hot months are so different than what she's experienced. At home, the seasons hardly proceed with such dramatic transitions.
Korra has her back to him again, and he doesn't catch her expression. Her voice is so unlike her, calm and low. Tarrlok doesn't know what to discern from her mood.
She says, "What am I supposed to do?"
"About what?"
"Amon. The Council." She moves her head for a moment, staring pointedly at him, as if reaching inside and plucking all of his lies out with startling awareness. "You. My airbending. The baby. Everything." She sounds so exhausted, older than her years. Without meeting his gaze, her weary eyes overlooking the partial ocean view, Korra continues, "Sometimes it's like I'm drowning and I can't get out. And everyone else is too, but I can't save them." Up close, she's a little more than a head shorter than him, yet she can pick him up and throw him across a room with ease. Not that such events are worth revisiting. "I'm alone."
"How can you say that?" he asks, placing a hand on her shoulder. For a moment, she stiffens. No matter what they do for the sake of appearances, they never bond so closely when alone. They haven't consummated their marriage. It's a political alliance, and that's all. She doesn't care for him. "Korra, you're the bravest woman I know."
"Don't let the chief hear you say that." He hears the mirthless humor in her voice. "Those cords really chafe."
The bedroom door is already opened so fresh air can circulate. A sudden coldness breezes in. Just then, there's crying from the other room. Korra gently grabs his hand and lifts it off of her, moving to go comfort her infant daughter.
Tarrlok had not known if he could love the child as his own, but she presented to him a second chance. Before Arja was born, that was all that mattered: he'd show the spirits. He'll show them. Councilman Tarrlok won't leave this world without any fanfare. Now, he'll be a better husband, a better father than Yakone ever was.
Then again, that isn't a lofty goal.
However, fear stunted his ability to take chances. Noatak had been the fearless one, the one with no inhibitions. While Noatak was stoic and carried the burden of Yakone's demands, he would leap into a situation without acknowledging his own mortality. Much like Korra.
Arja's hair is fine, and he braids it. She giggles and squirms. He smiles. This is the closest he's ever been to sheer giddiness. After years of coercion and schmoozing, it terrifies him to be responsible for someone else who trusts him by default. The girl doesn't know any better as she wiggles and fumbles, bites her own toes and chews on her pacifier.
Korra hardly speaks to him after she confided in Tarrlok about her insecurities, never even jokes or playfully punches him in the arm. They sometimes eat separately. She hates appearing or feeling helpless, and he can relate. Korra may not fear choking, but she's scared of drowning.
"You always resort to fire," he observes one evening. "Why?"
Korra's sitting on the bed, her legs dangling off of it. He removes his coat. As miserable as the summer has been, the recent rains have cooled the air considerably. He needs to keep his garments from getting soaked. The instability and unpredictability of the weather in Republic City is one of its lesser qualities. Tarrlok enjoys conformity, met expectations.
"Yeah." She puts a hand on her arm, as if insecure. "Well, it's the last one I mastered. Just comes easily, I guess. No offense, but it's easier than bending that requires you to have the stuff around it, and waterbending has never really been that proficient."
He flashes her a bitter smile. "You have no idea."
"I'm not really into freezing people's faces off." There's an accusation in her voice, and he quells most of his indignation. Does she believe he's willing to commit murder, particularly after he's spent decades convincing himself otherwise?
"I don't let them suffocate," he retaliates, an unusual edge in his voice.
Korra's lips purse. "Yeah, well, you could really hurt them with that. What's the point? Sure, they can't see, but pinning down their legs and arms is good enough."
"They're Equalists. We can't afford to be careful."
Her eyes darken. "It's not like they chi-block by headbutting you." Not letting that point die, but rather going on a tangent, Korra then says, "Where did you learn to waterbend, anyway?"
There's a deadness in his voice that makes her doubt herself. "My father. He wasn't a kind man."
"Oh." Korra sets her hands in her lap. "But he must've been a good waterbender, right? I mean, you have a lot of problems. Weird smell, funny clothes, but you can bend okay."
Dryly, he replies, "Much obliged, and he couldn't bend." No doubt—letting loose that fact is a mistake. She'll ruminate on it, yet Tarrlok increasingly cares less about maintaining his facade in his private chambers.
"Now I'm confused."
"I'd rather not discuss it."
Korra swallows, looking away. "I don't want to join the task force again."
They've already had this talk before—a few years ago. She'd been pregnant, but he hadn't known. He'd shouted at her and told her that she was faltering in her duty to the city. Korra retaliated unkindly. Despite their differences, neither of them can tolerate when their actions are questioned.
The next time they met, Tarrlok suggested marriage after one of her probending friends idiotically slipped the secret that she was with child. Their wedding was nothing like a traditional Water Tribe ceremony. His mother never wore a betrothal necklace, so he never bothered to craft Korra one. He figured that it wasn't necessary, much like Yakone never did little, insignificant things for his mother. Those times when he argued with Korra make Tarrlok cringe inwardly. As useless as most of the baubles she receives are, he doesn't want her to feel removed from a place where she's welcome.
He settles down beside her tentatively. "You have nothing to be scared of. I won't let anything happen to you." So, it's come to this. He's talking like a lovesick fool. Next, he'll be dancing in the meadows and composing saccharine serenades.
Korra snorts and rolls her eyes. "Please, don't get all patronizing on me."
Tarrlok rests his hand on her own, which is holding onto the bedsheet, and he's glad that she doesn't tense or move away. He can understand why she's so lively. It distracts her from everything falling apart. If Korra goofs around, she can forget that she's in Avatar Aang's shadow; Tarrlok has seen his fair share of shadows. Is this what prompted her nightly romps that resulted in Arja? Did she need to pretend that, for just a few hours, that she wasn't Avatar Korra? She wasn't the Avatar, and the man wasn't a menace bent on disarming her. It is such a mundane act—to couple with someone.
"I'm not trying to talk down to you," he says steadily.
"Sure, whatever, but I can handle myself. It's not like I'm the worst Avatar ever. Maybe."
"I'm sure there was one who was less productive," Tarrlok jokes. And there it is, that fire in her eyes again, no longer fueled by disdain. She slaps his arm with her free hand.
Then they just sit, his hand warm on hers, making it itch with the contact. Well, Korra already knows she's allergic to him. His stuffy cologne gives her a headache.
Her forehead knits in pensiveness, and his wife shakes her head. "Um, I don't really know what to say here."
Sincerely, he says, squeezing her hand, "Korra, I'd like to apologize for not being respectful to you during our encounters before the wedding." Wedding. It makes her think of parties except with that fluffy stuff. That fluffy, boring stuff that doesn't involve flying a dragon into a volcano and killing everyone.
What does Tarrlok want? Why is he acting like this?
"Yeah, you're definitely going to have to make that up." She leans forward and smiles slyly, immersed in his slight discomfort at the sudden, abrupt closeness. "I know just the thing."