Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hakoda doesn't think he's ever lost feeling in so many parts of his body before.

He's been sitting on the floor of the medical room for the better half of the afternoon, a sleeping fire nation boy basically in his lap. Kustaa had come in at one point, talking quietly one of the older sailors, Nu, only to stop short when he saw what was happening on his floor. It'd taken less than five minutes for there to be a crowd at the door, pushing and climbing over each other to get a look at their captain on the ground with a child huddled in his lap. It wasn't exactly an uncommon sight for chief Hakoda, of course, but it'd been years since his children had been small enough to do it, and it wasn't often a child ever came into contact with him whilst on the ship. In fact, it'd never happened. A good half of these men had never met him before this, either, having been from their neighboring tribe anyways.

Safe to say, Hakoda was slightly embarrassed at the cooing and staring.

Kustaa had let him bask in the embarrassment of the crew for only so long, shooing them away with harsh looks and jabbing fingers, muttering about 'waking the boy' and 'he hasn't slept a wink in days, move you lug!'

It hadn't been an awfully long time, really, but the hard floor paired with the limp body sprawled over him wasn't an amazing combo. The boy had curled against his side the first hour or so, tucking his face beneath his own hands, knees drawn up and resting against Hakoda's leg. Despite himself, Hakoda had to stop himself from cooing like the others, gently brushing a few stray hairs away from the child's bandaged eye out of habit. Katara had never liked her hair touching her face, especially in the warmer months. Kya would braid it for her in the mornings, pinning it up with walrus-whale bone hair pins. Hakoda had learned how to braid after her passing after he watched his daughter struggling to do it her self one morning, frustrated tears building in her eyes as she watched her reflection in the ocean waters when it was calm and clear.

Kustaa returned not too much later after shoving everyone away, quietly slipping into the room with a cracked ceramic plate and a small walrus-whale bone bowl, sloshing with todays stew. A few pieces of dried meat, likely some type of fish by the looks of it, and some dried dates. 

"For me? Kustaa, you shouldn't have," Hakoda smiled playfully, reaching out for the plate as if he were going to snatch something off of it.

Kustaa pulled it out of his reach, a smile of his own making its way onto his face. "No, not you, the boy. He's skinny as a rail, and you cannot tell me his height is natural for the Fire Nation." The atmosphere seemed to sour slightly at the mention of the Fire Nation, Kustaa's smiling dropping by the end of his sentence. Hakoda had to admit, the boy was small, smaller than he reasonably should be. Given that they didn't exactly know his age, they were just guesstimating, it could be normal, but sure as hell didn't feel that way. 

All things considered, he seemed well enough taken care of, despite the obvious—his eye, and the fact they pulled him out of the sea like a half-drowned mink-rat. It doesn't seem likely that he was a commoner from his nation, a servant boy maybe, working in the galleys or at his masters call, or perhaps he was any apprentice of sorts. Hakoda had heard of them being brought along on voyages if their teachers were going, a mechanic for the ship or even a firebender. That would make sense, given his apparent affinity to the ability.

Hakoda was dragged from his thoughts at the feel of the boy in his lap stirring. His fingers uncurled from where they'd been shoved against his chin and cheek, leaving little red indentations in the pale skin, his droopy eyes blinking open slowly. Out of instinct, he began to rub gentle circles on the boys side where his arm had been resting, keeping the child from tumbling over in his sleep. It was a habit he'd picked up from his own mother, she'd rub patterns and shapes into his skin whenever he was anxious or ill as a child, crawling into her lap for comfort or just to take a nap. He'd done it for his own children as well, soothing Katara after she'd had a rough day, struggling with her bending training with some of the elders, or with Sokka, when he'd catch something after staying out far too long in the cold without properly covering up during a hunting trip he convinced someone to bring him on. La, Hakoda missed his kids. He'd been picking up little things here and there when they'd stop at ports—few and far between so they were—things he thought his kids would like. He couldn't wait to return home so he could give them to them.

He didn’t seem to recognize where he was at first, blinking blearily, just resting idly against Hakoda as he regained his bearings. Hakoda had half the mind to gently move the boy, just in case he panicked.

Zuko, for all his faults, had never been one to nap. Especially not in random places, nor on random people, where he could be caught vulnerable. This, of course, was courtesy of the fact that many people seemed not to like his father. He could count on two hands the amount of times he’d been ushered into his room by a guard or his mother, instructed to stay put and to stay quiet, sometimes being left there for hours at a time. He’d never heard anything, and nothing ever happened during those times. Sometimes his sister would sneak in through the servants passage attached to his room, she’d somehow manage to sneak out of her own room, past her guards—she’d never tell him how, even though he begged to be let in on the secret—and enter one of the servants passageways and sneak into his room. They talk, quiet and hushed, sometimes they’d play, but after they were caught once by an angry nobleman and punished, they tended to just hide behind Zuko’s bed, between the frame and the wall, and just talk.

One time, when Zuko and Azula were outside in the gardens, playing a game of hide-and-seek, Zuko had been hidden behind a small group of thick shrubs, a hand pressed against his mouth to muffle his giggles. He was maybe six at the time, Azula was likely seven or eight depending on the season. His sister was searching for him, he’d seen her go past at least twice by now, looking more frustrated by the second. Oddly, he’d noticed she hadn’t made a round in a while, which he’d chocked up to her either getting annoyed and sitting at the pond to wait him out, or maybe she’d started looking harder. Either way, Zuko was determined to win this time, she always found him when they played this game, and she’d hold it over his head for days after.

He’d stayed huddled in that spot for what felt like hours, progressively getting less giggly and more annoyed at the fact that she’d probably just stopped looking and went back inside. It was a hot day, the sun was at it’s peak, so it was noon, and they’d come out around nine that morning, so it’d been at least two hours by that point. Zuko was just about to step out of his hiding spot, sweaty and decently mad, ready to go find Azula and harp at her for just leaving him out there, when suddenly a hand grasped his arm tightly, yanking him off his feet and onto his butt in the dirt.

He yelped, trying to  pull his arm away from whoever had grabbed him, however they’d only sunk their fingers tighter into his skin. He didn’t get a good look at the person, but their footwear was not that of the typical palace staff or his family. He’d cried out, tears welling in his eyes and falling down his face in a rather pathetic manner, only serving to annoy his attacker further. A small dagger was pressed against the soft part beneath his chin, biting into the delicate skin but not with an intent to kill, it seemed the person only wanted him to shut up. 

Eventually, a group of palace guards had come storming out into the gardens, shoving through the plant life and stomping on the little wildflowers that had popped up in their search for him. When his attacker had realized that it was inevitable that they’d be found, he’d let go, pocketing his dagger and shoving Zuko forward and half out of the bushes before disappearing back whatever way he’d come in. Zuko had wailed, drawing the guards attentions quickly as he crawled out from beneath the bushes and was collected swiftly into the arms of one of the men. He could feel blood running down his neck and soaking the already dark red fabric on his chest, but truly it was worse than it looked. There was only a small nick right below his jawbone, shallow but bleeding quickly given its location. The healer had patched him up quickly, and his mother had taken him back to his room and coddled him for the rest of the day, canceling his lessons—much to the disdain of his father. He still sported a small, pale scar in the area to this day, though it was slowly fading and would likely be gone by adulthood.

When Zuko had finally woken up enough to realize where he was, and who it was he was lying on, he almost cursed himself out loud. He quickly pushed himself up and away from the large man, out of his lap—his lap!—pressing his back against the wall closest. He was sitting face to face with the chief, the healer standing behind him also watching the spectacle with an unreadable expression on his face. His breathing picked up quickly, dragging shallow breaths between his teeth as he stared, wide-eyed, willing one of them to speak first. How could he have been so stupid? He fell asleep on the chief for Agni knows how long.

The chief, Hakoda, he thinks he remembers him saying that earlier, lifted his hands slowly, leaving them beside his head in a universal sign of “I’m not a threat to you.” Zuko had yet to be convinced of that.

“Calm down, you had panicked and then passed out after,” Hakoda spoke, gentle. “Nothing happened while you were asleep, I promise. It’s only been about an hour.”

Despite himself, Zuko’s shoulders lost a little bit of their tension at that. It’d only been an hour—an hour too long—but just an hour. At least he hadn’t lost whole days to his own weakness. He bit into his bottom lip, teeth chewing quickly until he could feel a pop of hot blood coat his tongue. Over the years, Zuko had grown used to the temperatures within his own nation, so close to volcanic activity so it was. He’d found it uncomfortable when he was small, the constant heat, sweating through his thick royal garments, event the way his long hair clung to the back of his neck when his mother wouldn’t put it up for him. Azula had laughed at him when she saw how uncomfortable he was, sneering at him that he “didn’t share their boiling blood.” Most siblings tend to have the ‘you’re adopted’ thing said between them, but usually it was said on baseless statements. Azula and him were not that type of siblings. She’d tell him that he was probably some Earth Nation bastard, born to a common family who sold him because they didn’t love him, that he didn’t share the ‘boiling blood’ of the Fire Nation.

He’d cried at first, he cried a lot when he was small—perhaps that’s why his father despised him so much—and run to his mother. Whenever she’d ask him what was wrong, scooping him up into her lap and holding him against her chest gently, running her fingers over his back in a feather light touch that would send cool shivers down his spine, he’d calm down quickly, sniffling and choking out what Azula had said to him. She would huff a small laugh, pausing whatever she was doing to carry him over to a portrait in the main hall of the familial ward of the palace, holding him against her hip and pointing at a small child, bundled in red and gold linens, held securely in his mothers arms. “That’s you,” she’d say, pointing down at a small plaque beneath the painting that read the date and the names of who was in the painting. Next to Azula’s, Zuko’s would be there, fit perfectly spaced between his sisters and his mothers. It didn’t always stop the tears, and it certainly didn’t stop the teasing he faced from his sister, but it helped sooth the pain in his mind.

The boy seemed to calm down slightly when Hakoda had mentioned how long it had been, his shoulders loosing some of their tension, though he didn’t completely mellow out. He still stared at them like he expected them to throw something at him at any given moment. Something in Hakoda’s chest started aching at that thought.

“Here,” he said softly, reaching back for the plate Kustaa was holding. The man gave it to him without hesitation, letting Hakoda pull it from his grasp and turn back around to face the boy. “You must be hungry.” He set the plate down between them, pushing it closer to the child with the tips of his fingers. The boy didn’t move, just merely looked at the plate with an odd expression.

Suddenly, something clicked into place in Hakoda’s head. “Kustaa,” he muttered, not turning to look at said man. He could feel the healers eyes on him as he listened to his footsteps moving around behind him. Eventually, Kustaa came into view next to him, the chair from his desk pulled over so he could sit in it. “Do you think he can even understand us?”

Kustaa’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh shit, I didn’t even think about the possibility of him not knowing the common language,” he said, shutting his eyes and rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his thumb like he had a headache.

“It would explain why he’s not responding to us.” Hakoda shrugged. “That, or he’s just being difficult.”

He turned back when he heard a small noise, a huff from the boy. He hadn’t moved, but he did have an expression more akin to contempt on his face rather than straight fear. Hakoda would count that as progress.

“I can-“ the boy started, before cutting himself off and taking in a breath. “I understand the common language. I’m not stupid,” he muttered, voice a bit rough like he needed to cough.

Hakoda chuckled softly, a bit surprised at the volatile tone. “Really? Well, you’ve yet to speak to us, so how were we to know?”

The boy deflated a bit, sinking back into his shell as he glared at Hakoda. He could feel the burning glare Kustaa sent his way, and, honestly, he probably deserved it this time. Hey, nobody’s perfect…

“Ignore him,” Kustaa sighed, waving a hand like he was trying to usher Hakoda away. Hakoda just shot him a playfully annoyed look. “He’s not had a conversation with anyone over the age of 40 in the past several months. He’s lost his tact.”

“Hey!-“

“Would you like to tell us your name, child?” Kustaa ignored the squawking from the chief, keep his eyes on the small boy. He’d slowly melted away from the wall, his shoulders hunched over, elbows rested on his knees as he watched the two men interact. It wasn’t a lot, but it was better than him being pressed up against the wall like he intended to meld himself into it.

A look flashed across the boys face, his eyes going a bit wide before he school it again, glancing over at Kustaa. He couldn’t help but noticed the dark look in the child’s eyes, and the fact that he wouldn’t hold eye-contact with him, instead staring harshly at his chin. Manners, or fear? One couldn’t tell on just this interaction alone, but Kustaa had a decent idea based on this past week.

The boy hesitated slightly before he spoke again. “Reka, my na-name is Reka.”