It's Zuko's first meal in the palace since Aang left, and he's not particularly looking forward to it.
Aang's gone, Katara's gone, Sokka's gone. Even Toph's gone.
True, they have their own work to do. Zuko may be Firelord now, but the world is far from at peace. There's still so much to do.
Uncle's gone too; Zuko can't leave the palace, and he needs someone he can trust to meet with the other nations' leaders in his place. Someone with people skills.
It could be argued that he also needs someone with people skills here; Zuko has never felt so far in over his head as he does right now, surrounded by nobles who barely accept his claim to the throne, and barely tolerate his presence.
It will be different now, without the Avatar. Without Uncle. Zuko's on his own.
Maybe not completely. The Kyoshi Warriors are lurking in nearby corners, just in case. Suki's standing within arm's reach, ready for trouble. Tai Li, dressed in the same garb, is farther away, but Zuko knows well enough that for all the time it would take her to reach him in an emergency, she might as well be standing right next him.
The servants are anxious, but they always are whenever there's a change in power; past Firelords have been known to clean court as soon as they've taken control.
Zuko has no intention of changing anything yet; anyone new might be just as likely to try to kill him as anyone currently here. Zuko doesn't have the connections past Firelords have had, not inside of the Fire Nation.
He doesn't have that many outside of the Fire Nation either, but what he lacks in quantity he supposes he makes up for in quality.
That's okay. He knows how to handle himself.
He hopes.
A serving girl brings forward a tray with trembling hands. Without thinking first, because it's been a long day of listening to noble after noble after noble explain why ending the war is a terrible idea in excruciating, unconvincing detail and he's had a migraine for several hours now never mind the dull throbbing pain in his chest where Azula nearly killed him with a lightning bolt aimed for his friend, he reaches out to help steady the tray.
The girl gasps. Her hand jerks, and the entire tray drops, spilling hot tea on the table, the girl, and Zuko himself. Before he can even fully appreciate how much he doesn't enjoy having hot liquids splashed across his chest and into his lap, the girl is on her knees, head pressed against the ground, sobbing.
One of the other nobles is there in a heartbeat, dragging her to her feet and turning her to face him and calling her 'stupid' and 'clumsy' and 'lazy' and 'bitch,' and it's pure reflex that has Zuko on his feet and catching the man's wrist before he can slap her.
"It was an accident," he says, his voice low. The noble turns to stare at him, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Zuko notes that the rest of the table is staring as well. "No harm done," he lies, and even Aang would see through that one, if he were still here; the tea was hot.
Still. He's had far worse in his life, when it comes to burns. A little bit of spilled tea is nothing.
The girl is still sobbing. When the noble releases her she falls back to the floor. Zuko has no idea how to deal with this, but suddenly one of the other servers, an older woman, is there, taking her by the arm and guiding her to her feet, thanking Zuko for his mercy and patience and all manner of other ridiculous things-Zuko knows for a fact that patience has never been one of his virtues.
The older woman retreats quickly, dragging the still crying girl along with her. Another servant tentatively steps forward and asks if the Firelord would prefer a change of clothes before sitting back down.
Zuko nods, and because he's still thinking about the crying girl and the fact that boiling tea does not feel good on a not entirely healed lightning scar, he waves absently at the rest of the table and tells them not to wait for him.
The entire room, minus the Kyoshi Warriors that follow him, watch as he leaves, the nobility scoffing at his inability to keep order for the duration of one meal without the Avatar's presence, the servants wondering if these are some of the heathenish ways their Firelord has picked up from spending too much time away from home, out and among the Water Nation barbarians and Earth Nation savages.
The servants are by and large relieved that the girl wasn't disfigured for slipping up on her first night working in the palace; nonetheless they find themselves wondering how long the boy-for Firelord or not, he is still little more than a boy-will last.
The kitchen is, as a general rule, never empty, never quiet.
The old chef-Royal Chef, if you will-is there most hours of the day, from the early hours before sunrise to the deep hours after dark. He has been overseer of this domain for three generations of Firelord-four if you count the young Princess Azula's ever so brief reign-and no one has ever considered replacing him. This is his passion, his calling, his life.
He is married to the job. His children are the chefs, bakers, and apprentices that serve under him. The only joy greater than watching the aspiring cooks under his care grow, blossoming into some of the very best chefs in the nation is sending perfection on a plate off to the pickiest of royalty, knowing that try as they might, they will find not fault with their meals.
He will admit, however that the current Firelord is something of a frustration. He has been here for weeks and has yet to send so much as a compliment his way. No recognition-not that he needs it-of his genius. Of his inspiration-and that after he nearly worked himself to the bone preparing a coronation feast to rival any prior feast, whether in remembrance or in legend.
To add insult to injury, there have been times when the Firelord has sent food back, uneaten, untouched. Inquiries have quickly been met with assurances that everything was just fine, thank you.
Fine. Just Fine, thank you. Practically an insult. And any attempts to adjust the offending courses treated the same way. Returned uneaten, untouched. Everything just fine, thank you.
On top of this aggravation, some child has been sneaking into his kitchen, late at night, and early in the morning, and stealing food.
It's insulting for a different reason.
He's never been stingy with food. Never turned away anyone who was hungry. He's made a point of it, and it's something he's proud of.
Yet for the last three nights someone has felt the need to sneak into his kitchen and make off with food like a common thief.
The kid is sneaky-very sneaky. The old chef almost missed it, the first time. The second time as well. Now he knows where to look, and what to look for, but the child is still practically invisible, sneaking through the kitchen and past the staff as if he were little more than a shadow himself.
Tonight, though, the old chef is ready.
His hand closes over a thin wrist right at the moment of triumph. The kid tries to jerk his hand free, fails, and then tries to make a break for it.
This, too, fails.
He seizes the boy by his collar, lifting him off the ground (the cook has never been a small man) and gives him a good shake for his trouble. The boy growls, and squirms, and shouts to be let down. The chef agrees, warning the boy that if he tries to run again he'll make sure he regrets it.
The boy doesn't try to run. He scowls, dusts himself off, and glares up at the chef as if he were the problem here.
The old chef blinks, then stares. A weight sinks into his stomach; his heart lodges itself in his throat.
The boy he has apprehended is none other than Firelord Zuko.
The boy-the Firelord-glares at him for a full minute without saying a word, and the old chef is certain that this will be his last day on the job.
Hell, he'll be lucky if he lives to see another dawn.
The Firelord lets out a long, slow breath that might, coming from anyone else, be considered a sigh.
"Stop staring," he snaps. His voice is rough, like he's been ill and has only recently regained use of it.
Or, the chef considers, eyeing a scar that covers one eye and most of that side of the Firelord's face, as if it's fire or smoke damaged. He catches himself disobeying a direct order and bows.
"My Lord," he says, doing his best to push aside both his grievances with the Firelord and with the boy who has been sneaking into his kitchen these past few days. "Forgive me, I did not recognize you."
The Firelord doesn't sigh again, because Firelords don't let out long, overdramatic sighs that suggest that their patience is being thoroughly tested. If anything, they punish those who would try their patience before it ever reaches that point.
"That was the point?" The Firelord looks around in a very un-royal manner and rubs the back of his neck in what on anyone else would be considered a slightly anxious manner. "I mean..." he frowns. "I didn't want to bother anyone."
The Firelord doesn't explain himself, and while he certainly isn't obligated to, he also isn't making any sense. The old chef waits, head still bowed, for some indication of what to do next.
Yet another not-sigh. The cook startles when a hand closes over his forearm, tugging upwards. "Please stop. I just-"
The Firelord's stomach growls, loudly enough for even the apprentices currently skulking along the edges of the kitchen in the hopes of staying out of their Firelord's way to hear, and the chef dares to look up only to catch him blushing.
"Uh,"
The chef does his best to recover some of the Firelord's dignity. "If you desire additional meals, you have only to request it, my lord."
"Right." And the old cook isn't sure, but he thinks his Firelord looks uncomfortable. "It's just that it's late, and most of the servants have already gone to bed, and I don't want to keep them, and I don't really need all that fancy food when bread is just fine, and-"
The old cook takes a massive risk, and pushes the babbling Firelord toward a table near the fire. When an order isn't immediately given for him to be clapped in irons, he sets down a loaf of bread and crosses the kitchen to dish up a bowl of stew to go with it.
The Firelord sets upon the offering as if he hasn't eaten in days, and doesn't decline an offer of seconds. Or thirds. He also doesn't particularly mind his manners-not that he's rude or sloppy. His manners are simply more...rustic than might be considered appropriate for his stature.
The old chef chuckles and starts a kettle of water to boil in case his Firelord might care for a cup of tea.
"Thank you," his Firelord says, and somehow manages to look both embarrassed and earnest at the same time. It makes him look almost human.
"Well you seem to enjoy that well enough," the old cook says, resentment daring to bubble up at the realization that his Firelord can apparently put away three helpings of stew, but won't touch some of the finest dishes he's made in his life.
The Firelord blinks at him, as if he knows there's something in the statement he's missed, but doesn't know what. The old chef is treading on dangerously thin ice, approaching the Firelord in such a manner, but there is, after all, such a thing as professional pride.
"I've had far more expensive-and far better prepared delicacies sent back since my lord began his reign-may he reign forever." The Firelord grimaces at that last bit, but then seems to realize what he's just been told.
"Oh."
The Firelord blushes bright red and looks away.
"Um." He takes a deep breath, fidgets with his spoon in a most ignoble way, and forces himself to meet the older man's gaze. "I just-I can't-I can't eat turtleducks," he admits, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They're just-I can't."
He looks distraught, which is also not something the old chef expected to see. Not that he ever expected to have the Firelord seated at a table in his kitchen in the middle of the night, eating bowls of soup and day-old bread as if it were his last meal. But still...
"You have a problem with the turtleducks?" the cook asks. "But my lord, they are only the youngest, most tender..." he trails off, because now the Firelord looks positively ill.
"They're turtleducks," he says helplessly, eyes wide in a pale face. And the cook still does not understand, but then again, the Firelord does not seem to remember being manhandled by a mere servant not so long ago, and it never hurts to build up a little goodwill with nobles, especially when it comes to royalty.
"If it troubles you, my Lord, we need not serve any such dish from here on out." The Firelord's relief is immediate. "No turtleduck shall find its way into my kitchen from this day forward, Firelord Zuko."
He is not prepared for the sudden gratitude in the Firelord's eyes.
Author's Note: I haven't read all the comics, so forgive me if anything clashes. I just had this mental image of Zuko trying to be Firelord, and winning his people over by basically just being his awkward self, and that's pretty much how this came about. Might be more in the future, I don't know. Anyway, thanks for giving it a go, and if you've got the time and the inclination, leave a review. They're much appreciated.
Disclaimer: Avatar: The Last Airbender does not belong to me.
