I'm so incredibly sorry for the impromptu hiatus! I really don't have any excuse except that I had forgotten about this for a while, but I'm back and ready to drill this baby home! In the meantime...

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! I'm so grateful for all of you guys who have been supporting and encouraging me throughout this drabble series! You guys are amazing! I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving! Stuff your face, be thankful for your blessings, and be safe (especially during Black Friday)! Love you guys! :)

Kimberly T: Oh my gosh, thank you so much! I'm glad you appreciated my efforts to try not to make things too depressing!

NollasBlack: I'm back! And yes, I agree! Katara was a crucial piece to the Gaang, and her role, I feel, was sort of underrated in the series :/

jellybean530: Congrats! You were successful in getting me to kick writer's block to the curb! Thanks so much for all the love! :)

One. Two. Three. Four. Five...

This has become a regular occurence. When they lie in bed, just the two of them, the world spinning at a slow and steady pace, she counts his scars. She traces them with her fingertips, skimming over white lines and angry red blotches, listening as he whispers the tale that accompanies each one.

After nights of this routine, she has memorized all of them, engraved them into her soul. She knows which of these he is proud of. She knows the ones she has given to him herself. She knows those that are more painful for him to recall. She knows that he has in total sixty seven of these scars, both big and small.

And because scars become a reflection of someone's story, she knows him.

But tonight is different. This time, he counts her scars, running his hand over every flaw, every mark on her body. He draws and tracks and kisses every single one, staring with some sort of reverence in his eyes.

Katara likes this, likes when she's exposed; raw. She likes that he sees every one of her flaws, every mark on her body that stands for a mistake she's made both literally and metaphorically. She likes it because she hates being perfect. She hates the idea of someone holding her up to the standard of gods and goddesses. She hates that with her, there is only black and white expected. She hates it because she knows that she's truly nothing more than the rest of them, nothing more than a girl with pride and anger and ugly unforgiveness bottled in her heart.

She likes that with Zuko, there's nothing to hide, nothing to cover up. She likes that she's allowed to be a person filled with grey. She likes that for once, it's okay for her to be proud and furious and grudging and just imperfect.

She loves it.

She loves him.

And when his fingers reach a burn scar that has branded her skin by his own hands, he weeps and turns his face away, but she only reaches with a cool touch to calm his heated skin, and tells him that it's okay, because she knows that he isn't perfect either.

It's only by the irony of the world that a girl who was too perfect and a boy who wasn't perfect enough would be brought together in something so unpredictable as love.

...Ninety-six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.