If there is one thing she regrets about fusing with Wan, it would be not being able to touch him anymore.

Not that they had done much of that sort of thing back before Harmonic Convergence – most of their physical contact at that point mostly consisted of mixing their energies together or carrying the other when they were exhausted – but near the end, before they'd run into those humans that Wan had known before meeting her, she had slowly begun to relish those small moments of touch more thanshe ever thought she would.

Now, they share a head, among other things, and unfortunately, sharing the same head also constitutes into sharing memories as well. She's kept most of her more awe-inspiring, unbelievable memories to herself, but his is open like a book, ready for her perusal at any time.

She doesn't look at them often – they are his private thoughts, and whether or not they share a body now they are his business alone unless he brings it up – but she'd had a glimpse of several of his more surprising fantasies from his younger days.

Since humans died so quickly and had children to carry on their legacy, she'd known they achieved reproduction somehow, she just wasn't aware of the how; until of course sixteen-year-old Wan's memories decided to inform her, about a decade after their fusion.

She'd been so mortified she hadn't spoken to him for a week, and he had just continued chattering to the thin air, oblivious to her discomfort as he petted Mula in between the horns.

Eventually, she eased into communication with him again, but uttered not a single word about what she'd accidentally caught sight of, some feeling niggling at the back of her mind – she'd been sure it was just residual embarrassment.

But it wasn't.

She felt it again, a few weeks later, when they'd stopped at an inn to spend the night at for once, and a woman of the night – the technical, far more polite term for prostitute – had sashayed right up to Wan, the smell of sake on her breath and eyes dancing with mischief as she grinned up at the tall man she'd spotted.

Wan had done his best to politely extricate himself from her embrace, but her hands had roamed everywhere – nowhere appropriate for public, certainly – and with a yelp, he'd been able to escape and flee outside to Mula, who had carried them away into the night like the faithful friend he always was, completely forgetting about the room they had rented.

Raava has seethed furiously for days, often breaking off into outraged rants on his behalf, while he did his best to help her calm down before she risked sending them into the Avatar State for no reason.

Wan put the incident behind him easily enough, but it stuck with Raava far longer, making her shift restlessly within her vessel (prison) and wishing more than ever that she could do something.

It wasn't until many years later that she finally realized what that feeling was:

Jealousy.

She had been jealous of that woman with no name, because she could touch Wan; and not just in the dark, inappropriate way.

Raava couldn't do any of the ridiculous petting that girl had performed. She couldn't hold his hand, or pat his head, or hug him, or wipe away his tears or press her lips to his-

She couldn't do any of that. Even if she still had her own body, it would've been unnatural and incredibly awkward, what with her large, fan-like form.

She couldn't touch him.

But she wished she could.

A/N: God, these two are ridden with much angst.
~Persephone