Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

London, 20xx

Sokka really wondered how he got himself in these types of situations, and while his contemplation of poor life choices wasn’t something really warranted for the situation as he sprinted over the slick pavement of some back road in south London, he would rather think about that than his own impending demise.

His breath came out in loud huffs, masking the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He made a mental note to add a few laps around the block to his workout regimen. Or he would if he had one. He made another note to have a workout regimen.

But again, not the time.

“Get back here!” Came a panted shout from around the corner Sokka had just wheeled himself around. “We have some words for you!”

Sokka resisted the urge to respond with a witty comeback that was probably even more unwarranted for the situation than a reflection on his shoddy decision-making, such as sure, gents, perhaps over a cup of tea, or if you wanted a date, you should have just asked.

No, a sassy response definitely didn’t fit the current social climate.

Sokka also wasn’t entirely sure where he was running to. Away from the kind gentlemen--one of whom was definitely a poorly trained firebender--that had interrupted his midnight smoke outside his flat, certainly, but the human body could only withstand so many minutes of running at a speed that would put a racehorse to shame before collapsing. Which left him in a bit of a pickle.

He could run home and hide behind the curtains like a king under siege, but his flat was in the complete opposite direction of where he was running, so that was out. He could stop and have a good old-fashioned chat with the men, but having a calm conversation with three inebriated goons--one of them a shitty firebender, his traitorous brain reminded him--likely wouldn’t go well for either parties. Them because they would have to deal with murder charges, and Sokka because he would probably die after one good hit.

Naturally, Sokka went for the third option. What that was, he hadn’t quite figured out yet. A half-formed plan was swimming around in his head that included a Spiderman-esque climb up a drainpipe and a few heroic leaps across buildings, and perhaps a fall that would land himself in the arms of a dashing man or woman (he wasn’t feeling too picky at the moment).

Nevertheless, the plan was fanciful at best, so Sokka slung a left into a muddy space between two brick buildings that only the kindest of persons could have called an alleyway. Looking around the corridor, he had a strange feeling of finding himself in nineteenth century London, with a cobbled road and rusted gas lights.

Sokka shook himself and set about poking about his surroundings. He couldn’t hear his pursuers in any near distance, so he comfortably assumed he would be left alone for a while. With that thought in mind, he picked his way around the oily puddles that rested between cracked cobblestone in search of a cafe or something similar on the other side of the alley.

Walking on, he found himself next to a door. Sokka observed a few strange things about said door. First, it was huge and grossly ornate, looking extremely out of place next to the dirty brick surrounding it and empty crisps packet lying a little ways off. Second, it didn’t have a doorknob, just a tiny ornate dragon carved into the wood at about eye-level. Above the door, a tiny neon sign flickered: The Jade Hotel.

Sokka glanced around suspiciously, wondering if he was a victim of some odd prank. Not seeing any blinking lights that would give away the presence of the camera of some malicious up-and-coming Youtube star looking to prey on some poor sap for his latest prank video, he reached out his arm and knocked on the oak of the door.

It swung open ominously. Sokka was confused, but he could hear the vague drunken shouts of his pursuers a little while off so he, against his better judgement, stepped into the room.

Again he was struck by the feeling of being dropped into the nineteenth century, which was jarring as only a couple hours ago had been binging Grey’s Anatomy on his laptop while his second microwave soup in as many hours cooled on his bedside table.

“Hello?” Sokka ventured, stepping past the threshold of the building into the almost complete darkness of the room. He wrinkled his nose at the cloyingly sweet smell of old flowers and strong tea, and observed the vague shapes of tables and overstuffed chairs around the space.

As soon as his muddy boot made contact with the wood floors of the strange building, a few lamps flickered on, revealing what appeared to be a hotel front desk directly in front of him and a guy with shaggy black hair sitting at it, staring vacantly at the whorls of wood in the desk. Aside from the mysterious teenager, the room was empty, though Sokka was right in his initial impressions of the furnishings--he felt distinctly as though he had suddenly teleported into his Gran-Gran’s house.

Sokka stared suspiciously at the man, waiting for some kind of movement to be made. After a few moments when no movement was offered, Sokka cleared his throat loudly.

“Look, mate. I don’t know what the fuck you’re on but I need a room.”

The messy-haired guy sitting behind the desk stared at him owlishly, face half in shadow from the dim light of the frankly hideous tasselled lamp to his left. Sokka tapped at the wood of the desk impatiently. “Hello? Hotel guy? A room.”

Messy Hair shook himself out of his daze and glared at Sokka. “If you’ve not noticed, mate, it’s nearly four o’clock in the fucking morning, so pardon me.” His sharp language contrasted with the poshness of his accent--like he was taught how to talk by watching videos of the royal family giving interviews.

Sokka glared back, affronted. “Well excuse me, Sir No-fun. I’ve been here for the past five minutes staring at your mess of hair with zero acknowledgement.” In the back of his mind, he made the vague observation that this whole debacle would make an excellent story for Katara in the morning--or later that day, as the hotel clerk was correct in stating grumpily that it was nearing four.

The man, bristled, sitting up. “Do you have any reason for being here, or did you just come in to throw a few insults around?” He patted at his hair mulishly, as though he could sense Sokka’s derision at it.

“Yeah. A room.”

The man snorted, shuffling around some papers on the desk. “Alright. I need some identification.”

Sokka, who, until that sentence had been uttered, had been digging around in his wallet for his I.D. card, froze. Damn it all.

The man squinted at him. “Are you alright?”

Sokka closed his eyes and tipped his head back in annoyance. “Yes, I - uh, I’ve forgotten my card.”

Messy Hair shook his head, barely looking apologetic. “Sorry, can’t have you with a room without your card. New regulations, you know how it is.” He motioned with his hand towards the door. “See you ’round.”

Sokka opened his mouth, prepared to go on a long tirade that would include such statements as, I’ve just run around London for the better part of the last hour, you tosser, or, there are several large goons after me if I could just lay low for a bit--but instead chose to take the path of least resistance and shut his mouth, shuffling out of the strange hotel with the ridiculously fancy door slamming shut behind him.

He took a deep breath, leaning against the wall. He supposed it was time to figure out a game plan beyond checking into a mysterious hotel in some odd corner of London and try to make it back to his flat without getting jumped. Again. Why me?

He startled as the door opened suddenly with an audible bang against the brick wall.

Messy Hair stuck his head out, looking about the alley. When his eyes landed on Sokka, his eyebrows jumped up under his fringe. “Good! You’re still here.”

Without very much warning, he grabbed Sokka’s arm and dragged him back into the strange-smelling room.

He unceremoniously shoved Sokka up against the wood-panelled wall. Sokka gulped. This was definitely not how he expected his night to go. He placed his hands on the man’s chest, feeling his collarbones pushing through the thin fabric of his collared shirt, intending to push the man off of him but only succeeding in making him fall more heavily against him in an attempt to resist Sokka’s pushing. “What… the fuck?” Sokka muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Quiet.” Messy Hair hissed in his ear, hands spread on the wood on either side of Sokka’s head. Sokka could smell his deodorant--a heady mix of spices. He took a few deep, steadying breaths. Messy Hair was very close; way more close than he had any right to be.

“Can you maybe explain what’s going on?” Sokka hissed back, taking pleasure in the man’s recoil from Sokka’s breath against his ear.

The man didn’t respond and appeared to be listening intently for something, head tilted towards the door. What he was listening for, Sokka wasn’t sure, but after a few moments, the man relaxed against Sokka’s chest and pulled away, surveying him.

“I’m Zuko,” he said shortly. He said nothing else, apparently waiting for Sokka’s response.

“I’m Sokka,” he responded cautiously, attempting to discreetly check him out. Not too bad-looking, as far as strange men working at mysterious hotels went, but definitely grossly posh. Red button-up that probably cost more than an entire month’s worth of rent, tucked into neatly pressed dress slacks. His feet were clad in beat-up grey trainers, however, and Sokka squinted at them, trying to make sense of the dissonance.

Sokka paused in his assessment of Zuko’s appearance to meet his eyes, which looked almost golden even in the dim lighting. It was kind of odd that they were such an intense shade, but lustrous gold eyes were by no means the strangest part of Sokka’s evening so he let it slide.

“Can you explain to me what the hell is going on?” Sokka rubbed at the back of his neck as he observed Zuko’s shifty expression, which reminded Sokka of a rabbit he had once spooked by dropping a bucket in front of it when he was nine.

“This is a hotel,” Zuko said blandly, as if that counted as a response, rubbing a hand over his face and pushing his fringe back, briefly revealing a mottled red scar that encircled his left eye and melted into his hairline. Sokka did his best not to stare, choosing instead to respond with a dry “Yeah, I assumed as much.”

Zuko winced, and the disgustingly tasselled desk lamp flickered behind him. “What I mean is that we really can’t have drunken altercations right outside, Sokka.”

“I’m not drunk!” Sokka protested hotly, “And I don’t think a seedy hotel in the backstreets of Peckham can really be too concerned about its image, can it?” Zuko’s glare sharpened at his words. “Now either offer me a room or let me go so I can go home and write a terrific review detailing your stellar customer service.” Sokka had no real intention of writing any kind of review, terrific or not, but his words had their intended effect: Zuko stepped away from him and gestured towards the door.

“Just get out of here. They’re gone now, anyway.”

“How’d you know I was being chased?” Sokka asked cautiously, half-expecting Zuko to reveal mind-reading abilities or something equally mental--the way the evening had played out so far, he wouldn’t even be surprised.

Zuko snorted. “CCTV, obviously. Those idiots were rounding the corner just as I saved your sorry arse.” He crossed his arms, a light flush building on his cheekbones.

“Well, erm, thanks, I guess,” Sokka muttered haltingly. “I’ll just--I’m gonna get going.” He didn’t wait for a reply, choosing instead to skirt along the wall until he felt the richly carved wood of the doorframe under his palms. He slipped out wordlessly, and the room plunged into darkness behind him.

***

Sokka didn’t see Zuko for several weeks. He was surprised, really, that thinking about the shaggy-haired clerk filled so many of his waking moments. But as Katara had pointed out when he complained to her mournfully about his state of mind, it wasn’t as though he had much else to occupy his thoughts.

He worked at a charity shop in Camden, where he spent most of the day sneezing as he sorted through endless piles of knit jumpers and selling tri-colour windbreakers to sixteen-year-olds. The job had a ridiculous commute for what it was, but it existed as a remnant of the year he’d spent living in a flat actually in Camden with Katara before she’d gone and abandoned him to live with Aang. Simpler times, and Sokka really was attached to the stupid second-hand shop.

Sokka next saw Zuko at a shitty little hole-in-the-wall pub, where he sat in the corner with Suki, nursing a large pint. He really wasn’t a drinker, and usually turned down Suki’s offers to go out drinking when they closed together on Saturday nights--but the October evening felt extra cold and damp, and the idea of another night spent alone in his drafty flat with nothing but day-old curry and a depressingly silent landline for company was incredibly unappealing. Even an evening spent drinking shitty beer with his ex-girlfriend was more appealing, which, he had to admit, said grim things about the current state of his life.

“What d’you do for fun, anyway, Sokka?” Suki inquired teasingly over her cider, mindlessly tracing a finger around the rim.

Sokka frowned, tipping his pint glass side to side and watching the amber liquid slosh around. Suki knew well enough what he did for fun--they had dated for a few solid months the year before. “Work. Third-wheel Katara and Aang.”

“Classic,” Suki snickered, “Sounds like nothing’s really changed.” Her dark eyeliner, usually drawn sharp enough to cut steel, was slightly smudged at the end of the wing, and her mascara had crumbled under her lashes. Sokka noticed all these things as though he was keeping a tally, all adding up to him probably accompanying Suki to her flat at the end of the night, even if only as a nanny.

Suki then launched into a tirade about her team--it wasn’t doing well, or maybe it was?--something to that effect. Sokka had entirely stopped paying attention because sitting at the bar and drinking--was that a tea?--was the mysterious Zuko. He stared. Posh hotel clerk Zuko, sat drinking a tea in a pub on a Saturday night, chatting quietly with the bartender. Sokka again began forming a tally: red button-up with the sleeves shoved up, cuffed black jeans, the same beat-up trainers from before. Same shaggy black fringe. All adding up to one unfortunately fit young man.

“Sokka!” Suki snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. “Have you been paying attention at all? Or are you busy ogling that emo lad in the corner?”

“I’m not ogling anyone!” Sokka protested, wrenching his eyes away from Zuko.

Suki snorted. “Right. Well, either you go ask for his number or you let me rant a bit. These Saturday nights are tragically the highlight of my week, and I won’t have you ruining tonight with your pathetic mushy longing.” She punctuated the last few words with sharp jabs at the table, ignoring Sokka’s indignant sputters. “Who is he anyway? Some tragic fling from uni?”

Sokka sighed and recounted the story of his visit to the odd hotel, pausing only to take deep draughts from his beer.

“What was the name of the hotel?” Suki was frowning, and a tiny line had formed between her eyebrows. She took a contemplative sip of her cider--now with considerably less liquid in it--while Sokka squinted and stared at the ceiling in an effort to remember.

“The Jade, I think.”

Suki’s eyes widened. “The Jade Hotel? D’you know, I’ve heard there’s mafia activity there,” she said conspiratorially, staring at Sokka with complete seriousness as he searched her face for a sign that she was taking the piss.

“The mafia? In Peckham? Are you completely stupid?”

“No! Sokka, you have to go ask him. Ask him if he’s a mobster, go on!” Suki was leaning forward, eyes bright.

“I think you’re mixing up London and, like, Chicago.” Sokka didn’t know too much about Chicago, but he was sure he’d read somewhere that it used to have some mafia-type blokes there. And in any case, he was slightly tipsy--he’d always been an embarrassing lightweight, a real issue back in uni where everyone seemed to spend more time at clubs than in class--and really didn’t want Zuko’s second impression of him to be him drunk.

“I need a top-up, anyway.” Suki shoved her glass towards him and smiled enthusiastically. “Go on! I don’t mind waiting.” As if to prove her point, she yanked a dog eared novel from the depths of her quilted handbag and wiggled it at him.

Sokka groaned and grabbed her glass, making his way to the bar. As he fished around in his pockets for a few pounds to cover Suki’s fresh cider, he cast a glance over in Zuko’s direction under the pretense of checking the evening specials--something he would never do normally, as consuming food other than chips from this particular pub had effects that were comparable to the kind of gastrointestinal upset that came from drinking weeks-old spoiled milk.

“Sokka?”

Maybe he hadn’t been as subtle as he’d hoped.

“Zuko!” Sokka smiled at him winningly, as if it had been his plan all along to chat up the man. Which, he reflected ruefully, it had.

“What … what’s up?” Zuko was gripping his teacup--Sokka had been right in his earlier observation--with unnecessary force.

“My friend thinks your hotel is a front for a mafia group. Also, nice to see you again.” Sokka decided that the sweating cider glass in front of him was much more interesting than any aspect of Zuko’s face. A patented lie.

Zuko choked on the gulp of tea he’d just taken. “The mafia?”

Encouraged by Zuko’s incredulous response, Sokka continued, “That was my reaction! Obviously things aren’t exactly great politically right now, but there’s no need to resort to mob violence. She’s just been on edge since that bombing in January, but what can you really expect when London’s been taken over completely by firebending nutjobs. The only thing stopping the rest of the world from coming in and declaring this whole city a human rights violation is that they’re all equally beset by firebending nutjobs.”

“Right.” Zuko looked faintly green.

“Though now that I’ve said it all out loud,” Sokka said slowly, watching condensation drip and form a ring around the tall glass, “it seems more likely that your hotel would be a front for some kind of underground resistance movement. Like in, I dunno, Harry Potter, or something.”

“Harry Potter?” Zuko still looked as if he was seconds away from a desperate sprint to the toilet.

“Y’know, the one group that bearded bloke was the head of. The phoenix something-or-other. Can’t be arsed to remember. ‘Course, the author of those books was a real nutter, so maybe that’s not a good example.” The alcohol had definitely loosened Sokka’s tongue. A lot. He was cursing so much more than usual, and somewhere in the back of his mind he still had the grace to be incredibly embarrassed. He coughed awkwardly. “Anyway, we’re sitting over there if you wanna join. Bit pathetic for two people to just sit drinking together on a Saturday, but you’re at a pub with a bloody tea, so I think you win the contest of most pathetic.”

Zuko shook his head, looking mystified. “I was … just about to leave. Actually.”

Sokka nodded in relief. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed an errant napkin and pen and scribbled his landline number on it. “If you ever need help with your underground ring of rebels.”

Observing how Zuko blanched at his words--just as his skin was returning to a normal colour--Sokka hurriedly added, “Kidding! Only joking! Completely taking the piss. I’m sure you run a perfectly respectable establishment.” He shoved the napkin towards the man and, grabbing the cider, hurried away. He cast one backwards look, just in time to watch Zuko carefully fold the napkin and place it in his shirt pocket.

The rest of the night passed without incident--Sokka walked Suki to her flat, explaining all the while that no, Zuko is not the ringleader of a secret mafia outpost. He did not mention his ridiculous tipsy rambling about Harry Potter, of all things, nor the fact that he had given Zuko his number, and he spent most of his forty-five-minute bus ride home trying desperately to get Zuko out of his head.

***

Aang was completely destroying Sokka at Monopoly. It wasn’t fair at all.

The pair were sitting on the floor of Aang and Katara’s tiny living room in their tiny flat, with Katara curled up on the threadbare sofa behind them. Monopoly was set up on their small coffee table, and Sokka kept dropping his little green hotels and losing them in the thick, dusty plush of the rug beneath his knees.

“This game is rigged!” Sokka exclaimed as his traitorous thimble landed on Park Lane for the third time that hour, and Aang cackled gleefully as he collected the several hundred pounds from Sokka’s rapidly dwindling stack of colourful money.

“I don’t know how you two can sit playing a board game as the world implodes around us,” Karara yawned from her place on the sofa, where she sat with her newspaper.

Sokka glared at his meagre pile of fives and tens. “If you don’t pay attention to the news it can’t depress you.” He could feel Katara’s frown on the back of his neck. “That’s my personal strategy. I couldn’t even tell you who’s the prime minister right now.”

Katara sighed. “A complete muppet, that’s who. They might as well stick a literal muppet up there for all the good he’s doing.” She shook the pages of her newspaper with vigour to punctuate her words and muttered something about the end of democracy as we know it to herself.

Sokka allowed himself a snicker at the idea of Miss Piggy sitting up in the House of Commons. He ignored Aang’s crows of victory as his own car landed on Park Lane, allowing him to add another hotel that would truly be the end for Sokka should he land there again. “D’you know, I didn’t even really realize firebenders were a real thing until uni.”

Aang paused his careful sorting of his large stack of colourful pounds. “But--your mum--”

Sokka waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, I know, my mum. But I always thought Dad was just telling us that to make us feel better--kind of like when your dog dies and your parents spare your delicate toddler sensibilities by telling you he ran away to a farm.”

Katara kicked him in his upper back. “How is firebending any more comforting than whatever explanation you cooked up in your worms-for-brains?”

“For a few years, I thought she’d just left. Run off back to her parents in Canada and never looked back, I dunno. I wouldn’t blame Dad for cooking up a firebending story to explain away something like that.” Sokka paused, tossing his tiny thimble from hand to hand, game abandoned. “I guess part of me didn’t want to believe she was actually--y’know--dead. Offed by a firebender, no less. ‘Cause back in primary school when she died, firebenders were more legends than anything else. Like, I dunno, the Illuminati.” He took an awkward sip of his rapidly cooling mug of tea while Aang looked at him more like Sokka’d just barest the deepest depths of his soul rather than lightly joked about his mum’s death.

Katara hummed contemplatively behind him--Sokka didn’t need to look to know that she was probably fiddling with the blue charm of their mother’s engagement necklace. The newspaper rustled as she put it aside. “I guess that makes sense. I never really questioned it, but I was a lot younger and, well …” she trailed off. “I did sort of … see her. I think.”

The thimble went flying as Sokka whipped around and grabbed his sister’s knee. “What? Twenty-one years of life and you’ve never thought to mention that?”

Katara nervously tugged at her necklace. “It never came up! And it’s not something I like to remember--I barely remember it, really.” She looked over Sokka’s shoulder at Aang, who was undoubtedly giving her an encouraging smile. “I was only eight. I was home sick from school--it was a home invasion of some kind. I did some research a few years ago before they started getting strict about library access and curfew during uni--the timing matches up with when the bending raids were at their peak.”

“So Mum was a waterbender?” Sokka blinked a few times, trying to process this new information. When he’d accepted Katara’s invitation to come over to her flat for a cuppa and some light board gaming, he hadn’t expected to have his entire worldview shifted.

“I guess so. The whole thing is a blur--I was in the living room with Mum, and then I wasn’t and there was yelling. And then I smelled smoke …” Katara was now holding onto her necklace with a vice-like grip. “I didn’t leave my bedroom for hours, not until Dad came in to get me. She was just … gone.”

The air in the room was heavy and silent. Sokka remembered that day, sort of. He remembered coming home having gotten an excellent mark on his solar system project, excited to show his mum. He couldn’t, obviously, and his family didn’t actually get into their flat for two days while the police crawled around searching for evidence. Nothing turned up, and Sokka, Katara, and their father quietly buried their mum on a drizzly March day in Balham. Sokka didn’t like remembering it.

The rest of the afternoon passed with a much more sombre air--Aang quickly finished expertly demolishing Sokka at Monopoly, while Katara returned to her newspaper, sniffling quietly. Eventually, the light outside turned a soft orange, and Sokka declined Aang and Katara’s invitation to stay for dinner--he joked about not wanting to sit and third-wheel for several more hours through dinner, but really he just wanted a few peaceful hours in his quiet flat to sit and think.

But someone up in the sky definitely had it in for Sokka. He contemplated this idea as he stood outside the entrance to his building and stared at the man sweating profusely in front of him.

“Zuko?”

Chapter Text

“How did you find my flat?”

Sokka and Zuko had stood and stared at each other for upwards of a full minute before Zuko had finally asked if he could please go upstairs with Sokka, and promised to explain everything once they were safely inside. Sokka had acquiesced, more out of curiosity than anything else, and now the harried man was sitting on one of Sokka’s two armchairs, both of which had seen better days. Sokka was sat in the other chair, absentmindedly picking at a hole in the upholstery as Zuko took several deep breaths.

“Yellow pages. You gave me the number of your landline. There are only so many Sokkas in London.” Zuko spit out each phrase as if he didn’t have the time for full sentences, and paused to swipe at the sweat beading on his forehead, making his hair stick up oddly on end.

“Okay,” Sokka said slowly, “and can you explain why you’re here looking like you just ran an entire marathon wrapped in a thick quilt?”

Zuko blinked at the imagery being offered to him. “My hotel burned down,” he said blithely.

It was Sokka’s turn to blink incredulously. He leaned forward. “Your hotel what?”

“Burned down.” Zuko bit out. “I’m sorry for turning up out of nowhere, but I really had nowhere else to go.” He tugged pathetically at the collar of his black raincoat. Really, Sokka observed, his whole appearance was pathetic. The ever-present November misty rain had picked up considerably while Sokka had been traversing the Underground, and Zuko’s mess of hair was plastered to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and rain. The edges of his red scar poked out from the fringe that he kept determinedly slicked down over his left eye, and Sokka was filled with a strange and overpowering urge to reach out and brush it out of the way.

He chose to act like a complete git instead. “What, got no other friends?”

Zuko glared at Sokka, his hands curling into fists in his lap. His face was tight and his words were tense as he muttered something unintelligible.

Sokka leaned forward. “What?”

“I said,” and here Zuko’s face grew even more pinched, “my uncle died.”

Sokka’d really done it now. “Oh. Sorry.” he squeaked, and leaned back against the chair. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Zuko twisted his fingers through the black hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s fine--well, it’s not fine, really, but it’s not why I’m here.” He paused, and the corners of his mouth twisted down slightly as his forehead creased. Sokka felt his heart wrench--Zuko was clearly barely holding it together. He wondered if even an hour had passed since the hotel had met its untimely end.

“Then why are you here?” Sokka ventured to ask. He was forcefully reminded of the time he had to console Katara after her first real break-up in secondary school and had to fight the urge to get up and give Zuko a hug, or do something equally stupid and soft like hold his hand.

Zuko seemed to be working himself up to something. He grimaced and titled his head back to stare at the ceiling. “You remember when we talked at the bar, yeah?”

Sokka winced. “Unfortunately. Sorry about that. I was being a prat.”

“We were having a conversation about, erm, the mafia, I think.” Zuko looked very pained.

“Suki was right? You’re a part of the literal mafia?”

“Suki--? No! I didn’t say that!”

“You did! You just brought it up!”

Zuko ignored him, pushing the conversation forward. “You then started prattling on about Harry Potter. And … underground rebel rings.”

Sokka gaped. “I’m sorry, Katara must have put magic mushrooms in my tea. I think I’m fully hallucinating right now. Are you implying that you’re a part of some firebender resistance army?”

Zuko was silent, which was answer enough for Sokka.

“I don’t even know how to begin processing this.” Sokka slumped back. “Could you maybe explain a bit?”

Zuko explained.

His hotel, the Jade, was a front--Suki had been right about that much--for a resistance group known as the White Lotus, of which Zuko was a recent induction. His uncle was the leader--or had been up until about an hour ago, when a group of firebender secret police attacked, killing Zuko’s uncle and destroying the hotel. The White Lotus was in shambles without their base and had gone from a formidable resistance movement to barely a scuff on the firebenders’ large, steel-toed boots in one afternoon.

“How long has the White Lotus been around?”

Zuko shrugged. “It’s existed in some form or another for fifty years or so--ever since the firebenders began their takeovers in earnest. There are branches all over Europe, and a small one in America. This London post is--was--the original.”

“Shit,” Sokka breathed, feeling his brow furrow. He’d always assumed that the world had just sat down and watched the firebenders slowly begin their takeover, and felt more than a little stupid. “What are you going to do now?”

Zuko stared at Sokka, looking for all the world like he was sizing him up--or checking me out, Sokka’s idiot brain supplied. Katara was right. He really did have worms for brains.

“Can I take off my coat?” Zuko finally said, clumsily dodging Sokka’s question. Sokka nodded, and Zuko slid out of the bulky black jacket, revealing, yes, the same red button-down and black dress slacks he seemed to wear every single day. Sokka couldn’t help but notice that Zuko was wearing incredibly beat-up maroon Docs instead of his usual gross trainers, and in that moment came to the proper realization that he was well and truly done for. Entirely and completely fucked.

***

Sokka lay in bed, wide awake. It was nearing two in the morning, and he had to be up early--in five hours, he grimaced as he realized--to open at the charity shop, but how could he really be expected to sleep with Zuko curled up quietly on the futon in his living room? The futon that hadn’t been used since Sokka lived with Katara, and just followed him as he moved from house to house, but Zuko didn’t need to know that.

He replayed the night’s events in his mind: Zuko, showing up on his doorstep like a sad drowned kitten; the revelation that there was apparently a rebellion happening under his very nose that he had somehow missed; the way that Zuko’s eyes had lit up when Sokka admitted all he had for food was leftover Thai takeaway from the night before. Zuko was an enigma, Sokka groused as he rolled over and punched his pillow into a different shape. He sounded posh enough to have been raised in the middle of a fucking palace with a silver spoon clutched in each fist, but by all appearances acted the complete opposite.

Sokka pictured Katara standing in front of him. You barely know anything about Zuko, Sokka, and you’re letting him sleep in your house?

Not for lack of trying! Sokka responded to the Katara apparition. That man makes a genuine effort to hide every detail about himself.

I think you should try to join his revolutionary group, ghost Aang piped in from the corner of the room. You’ve always wanted to, ever since your dad.

Sokka glared at the corner. Of course he couldn’t escape Aang’s hare-brained advice even during a literal conversation that Sokka made up in his head. He couldn’t even pretend that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind at all--the idea of running off with Zuko and becoming a wanted criminal living a life of glamour on the run.

It wouldn’t be glamourous, Sokka, Katara frowned. It’d be dangerous. Definitely not as cool as you’re imagining right now.

“Okay, this whole thing is starting to feel a little like the whole angel-and-devil-on-each-shoulder thing and I really can’t take any more of it.” Sokka announced to his empty bedroom. “And now I’m talking to myself.” He rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he should just give up on sleeping for the time being and go grab a book or something. Yeah, that sounded like a good idea.

Sokka’s flat was tragically small, and Zuko’s futon was positioned such that if Sokka didn’t pay attention as he was stepping out of his bedroom, he would be at serious risk of tripping over the sleeping man. It was nearing two in the morning. Sokka was not paying attention.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Sokka hissed as he felt his toe connect solidly with the corner of the futon. “Ow, ow, fuck,” he groaned as he fell headlong into the adjacent armchair. Small flat, small living room. Awake Sokka, awake Zuko.

“Sokka?” Zuko raised his head from the depths of a mass of blankets and ran his hand through his mess of tousled hair. His voice was rough--from sleep, probably--and Sokka felt something tug in his gut. Fuck! Fuck!

“Hi,” Sokka squeaked from his position sprawled face-first on the armchair he’d stumbled into. “Did I wake you up?”

“No, I--” Zuko cleared his throat and sniffled loudly, “I was awake.”

“Cool,” Sokka said to the armchair. “Sorry anyway.”

Sokka could hear Zuko shifting in the blankets. “I did want to thank you for letting me stay over. Not … not everyone would just let a full stranger into their house to sleep.”

“Yeah, well, you looked absolutely pathetic,” Sokka replied bluntly. “And it’s not like you’re a serial killer or anything.” He paused. “Right?”

Zuko snorted and Sokka’s eyes widened--he resisted the urge to make a comment about Zuko finally showing an emotion other than complete dejection and general mopeyness. His uncle did just die, his brain worms helpfully reminded him. “I’m not a serial killer,” Zuko confirmed, sounding just slightly like he was talking through a smile. Sokka tried not to feel too much like a kid who’d just won first prize at the science fair.

“Cheers,” Sokka mumbled into the upholstery. Had he ever washed this chair since he picked it up a year ago? Based on the smell, probably not. He decided it was probably time to sit up and act less like a complete idiot, and did so awkwardly and with much cursing, as he had the proportions of a ragdoll and the coordination to match.

The small room was silent. If Sokka squinted, he could barely make out the shape of Zuko sitting up and leaning against the wall with his knees up to his chest.

“What were you doing up?” Sokka ventured to ask, though he was ninety percent sure Zuko really had been asleep.

“I was reading some old journals of my uncle’s.” Zuko pointed at a mess of papers in the dark corner.

Sokka frowned. “You could turn on the lamp, you know.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Zuko said blandly, in a way that led Sokka to believe he’d maybe just wanted the relative privacy of darkness around him.

“D’you--did your uncle give you any idea of what to do next?” Sokka was almost afraid to ask the question he’d had on the tip of his tongue since Zuko revealed the disintegration of the White Lotus. He didn’t know if he’d rather Zuko say yes or no. Say yes, and visions of the pair of them sprinting away from burning buildings carrying spray cans filled Sokka’s head. Say no, and Sokka imagined night after night of eating takeaway together in his living room, and doing disgustingly domestic things like shopping at Tesco or filling up their Oyster cards together. Either way, he’d made the executive decision that Zuko was not allowed to walk out of his life in the morning. Despite the fact that he still knew next to nothing about him. Sokka got a good vibe from Zuko. Sokka thought he was generally pretty good at reading people’s vibes. Katara said he just trusted too easily.

“Sort of.” Not exactly a yes, but Sokka would take it.

Zuko seemed to be debating how much to tell him. Sokka did his best to project the air of being incredibly trustworthy, which was hard to achieve from his ungainly sprawl on the armchair. “The most recent papers just detailed information I already knew. Missions that had already been completed. The only new things were two of these.” Zuko leaned over to the mess of papers and withdrew two small squares of paper, waving them around.

“’Fraid I don’t have night vision.” Sokka stifled a yawn and could almost feel Zuko rolling his eyes. Why, oh why was he suddenly getting tired now?

“They’re invitations. Some kind of ridiculously posh firebender party is happening up in Hampstead next weekend and my uncle saw fit to get two tickets for some reason.” Zuko seemed to be doing his best to sound disinterested, but there was a sudden tense edge to his tone. Something about Hampstead seriously stressed him out.

Sokka, meanwhile, could barely contain his excitement. A big firebender party. Champagne flutes, girls in slinky dresses, and almost guaranteed political intrigue--exactly what he had in mind as he’d lain in bed envisioning dropping everything to become a super spy a la James Bond. “You have got to let me go with you,” he blurted out.

“What? I haven’t even decided to go!” Zuko sputtered, dropping the cards.

Sokka leaned forward. “It’s our--your--only lead! And you must be completely barmy if you think I’m going to let you go off and commit espionage without me. You’re practically mad with grief--you need me to keep you on track so you don’t go on and kill the fire Lord or something.”

“Mad with … I am not mad with grief!” Zuko said hotly. “And I wouldn’t go kill the fire Lord! There’s no way he’ll even be there--he doesn’t bother with parties. There’s probably just some meeting of the higher-ups happening in whatever little mansion this party is being hosted in.”

“Then we need to go infiltrate the meeting,” Sokka said slowly as if Zuko was being thick on purpose. “Come on, Zuko, how often do you get to dress up all fit and act posh at some bigwig’s mansion?”

Zuko let out a short bark of laughter. He sounded almost derisive as he said, “Not often.”

Sokka fought back another yawn. “Look, it’s near three now … we can pick this up in the morning.” He jabbed a finger in Zuko’s direction, though he doubted Zuko could see him through the gloom. “I’m not done with this conversation.”

Zuko said nothing in response, just settled back under his quilt. Sokka tiptoed his way back to his own bed and sank into a deep--if short--dreamless sleep.

***

Zuko was still there when Sokka stumbled out of his room, yawning, a few minutes after seven. He had moved from the futon to the same armchair he’d occupied during the evening, and was again poring over his uncle’s papers. At some point during the night, he’d shed his red button-down, and sat wearing his undershirt and slacks. Speaking of ridiculously domestic.

“Want a change of clothes?” Sokka offered by way of a greeting, and Zuko looked up in surprise, apparently not having heard the door open. “Erm, good morning,” he added after Zuko just blinked at him.

“Morning,” Zuko said faintly, then returned his eyes to the journal, the tip of his one good ear flushed a bright red.

Weird, Sokka thought, scratching his bare chest absentmindedly as he picked his way over to the kitchen, looking forward to inhaling a large bowl of Shreddies before heading to work. “What’re you going to get up to today?” he called back into the living room over the sound of the breakfast cereal hitting the ceramic bowl. He paused for a half-second before reaching for a second bowl.

Zuko hadn’t answered by the time Sokka returned to the tiny living room and shoved a heaping bowl of cereal into his hands.

“Well?”

“I dunno … probably do a bit more research. See what I can salvage from the hotel wreckage.” Zuko suddenly looked very small and lost, curled up in the armchair with his cereal and surrounded by an explosion of papers. Sokka knew, reasonably, that Zuko was a grown man--as grown as a person could feasibly be in their early twenties--and perfectly capable of handling his own grief and mourning process. Unreasonably, the urge to give the poor ex-hotel clerk a hug threatened to overwhelm him. He settled for sitting down on the neatly made futon and slurping at his breakfast instead.

Zuko wrinkled his nose. Sokka smiled inwardly--mission accomplished. But something about Zuko’s sentence niggled at the back of his mind. “What do you still need to salvage?”

“All of my worldly possessions,” Zuko said dryly, punctuating his statement with a large bite of cereal.

“You didn’t have… a flat? You lived in the hotel?”

“Yeah. Shared one of the posh upstairs suites with my uncle,” Zuko shrugged, “It never was any issue til some madman decided to burn it down to cinders.”

Someday, Sokka vowed, he was going to get Zuko’s undoubtedly tragic backstory out of him. For now, he would stick to something a little simpler. He leaned back and surveyed Zuko, squinting his eyes and stroking an imaginary goatee. Sokka was assuming the same character he would when Katara used to come to him in secondary school complaining about friend problems or obnoxious teachers, or lamenting that Dad had done something irredeemably stupid again. “Dear, precious Zuko…” he mused slowly, “I have the perfect solution for your woes.”

Zuko was staring at Sokka as though he’d sprouted a second head right before his eyes.

Sokka paid no mind to his incredulity. “Follow me, dear boy,” he continued, standing up and setting the bowl down next to the futon. He indicated for Zuko to follow him into his bedroom, leading him over to the large chest of drawers that sat shoved in one dark corner. “The remedy,” Sokka said dramatically as he yanked one of the drawers open with very little grace, “is, of course, one of Gran-Gran’s knit jumpers, handmade with love.” He gestured with great aplomb to an array of chunky colourful piles of knit.

“Are you fucking with me?” Zuko stared apprehensively at the drawer, switching his gaze back and forth between it and Sokka.

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” Sokka continued in his character’s voice, then, when that produced no response, dropped the act. “I’m serious, Zuko. Grab a jumper. Don’t be such a prat about it” He left a spluttering Zuko to peruse the selection of knits and went to the tiny closet, where he yanked out a pair of jeans and a grey t-shirt. “I’m not going to let you walk around London in the same slacks you slept in,” he muttered to the jeans.

When he returned to the chest of drawers, he saw that Zuko had picked up a large royal blue jumper with grey star patches on the elbows and was smoothing his hands over the front. Sokka dumped the clothing on top of the pile of knit into his arms and swept past him back into the living room.

Usually, the character--Wang Fire, as Sokka had so cleverly dubbed it back when he first started using it--would dole out mushy, ridiculous advice until Katara burst out laughing, or launch into long soliloquies detailing all the creative ways one could cause the untimely demise of a certain English teacher and make it look like a tragic accident. Wang Fire was a guaranteed mood booster, and Sokka could only hope that he’d had the intended effect on Zuko.

Zuko emerged and resettled into his nest of papers without much preamble, but only protested slightly when Sokka insisted that he go with him to open the charity shop. Minimal complaints were given when Sokka revealed the length of the commute, and Zuko’s eyes had only hardened slightly as Sokka launched into the story of how he and Katara had come to live in Camden after university, gesturing wildly as they descended into the Underground. Sokka managed to provide almost a non-stop stream of chatter for the duration of their thirty minute Tube ride--punctuated only by soft reminders to mind the gap as the train stopped and started, passengers flowing in and out as London began to wake up around them.

They surfaced and walked briskly to the tiny charity shop. Sokka was working until midafternoon and apologised profusely while Zuko insisted that he was fine and could entertain himself perfectly well without Sokka.

“I have research I can do, Sokka! Some of my uncle’s contacts live around here … we don’t need to be joined at the hip just because you feel sorry for me,” Zuko said sourly as Sokka’s expression threatened another few minutes of babbled apologies. “I’m serious!”

“Don’t--don’t do that, Zuko!” Sokka looked pained. “I’m not trying to baby you--I just--I want to help!” He couldn’t understand when exactly the morning had fallen apart around him--hadn’t only minutes before Zuko been chuckling at one of Sokka’s jokes?--but he knew he really didn’t like the trajectory their conversation was on.

“Right, yeah.” Zuko snorted derisively, looking out into the street as a large bus roared past them. The street lamp overhead lit up and started flickering ominously, casting odd shadows on his face.

“I do!” Sokka insisted. “I want to see that you’re going to be okay.”

“Oh, piss off with that nonsense. You barely even know me. You just want to spend a few days trotting around the city and feeling like a hero before you go back to your comfortable little life with your sister and friends and--and fun weekly visits to the pub--”

They were standing a metre or so from the front window of the shop, where plastic mannequins posed and displayed all manner of chintzy coats and tulle dresses. Zuko’s arms were twisted tight around his middle and Sokka felt his own hands ball into fists under the too-long sleeves of his duffle coat, the sharp edges of the shop keys digging into his palms. This isn’t fair, Sokka protested somewhere in the back of his mind.

“--and you’ll have your adventure and some fun stories and I--I’ll go somewhere else. This whole thing will just be a funny little blip in your November.” Zuko’s tone was bitter, but an edge of sadness had crept into his words. “Just go to work, Sokka. I’ll meet you back here at two.”

“Zuko--”

“Go.” Zuko turned, and without a backwards glance started walking back up the way they’d come. The light above them flickered out and resettled into the sidewalk.

Sokka was left standing alone, feeling a similar level of dejection to when he’d been broken up with in year nine behind the school after exactly thirteen days of dating. Nancy was the girl’s name, he was pretty sure. He had been crushed, and stayed back there, leaning against the faded brick and mournfully munching on the Lion bar he’d bought for her from the corner shop on his way to school that day.

Sokka didn’t have a Lion bar this time, but he did have several new boxes of donations to sort through, so he took a deep breath and walked up into the shop.

As he stood at the till popping open 10 pence sleeves and sorting coins, Sokka tried to pinpoint exactly what he’d done to piss off Zuko so much. All they’d talked about for pretty much the entire Tube ride was Katara and Sokka’s family--nothing there could possibly have offended Zuko.

Unless--and Sokka barely suppressed an annoyed groan as he leaned back--it had been the family stuff that’d set him off. Based on the limited amount of information Zuko had inadvertently revealed to Sokka, his only close family was his uncle, and he’d worked at their hotel since he was a teenager--likely leaving very little time for childhood shenanigans.

“Oh, I am such an arsehole. Shit, damn it all.” Sokka cursed under his breath, staring mournfully at the container of novelty enamel pins set next to the till. He could only hope that Zuko would still show up at 2 like he’d promised to.

Zuko did show, albeit looking like he would rather melt into the pavement than be there standing in front of the shop--but he was there, so Sokka counted it as a win. Plus, now he had a plan.

Before Sokka could say anything, Zuko said very fast, “I’m sorry I acted like such a prat earlier today but I spent the whole morning getting information and talking to my uncle’s contacts so I’ve decided that we should go to the party.”

Sokka blinked, trying to parse the stream of words that had just come out of Zuko’s mouth. “Great!” he beamed, “Now you get to come with me to meet Aang and Katara! I think they should go to the party, too.”

Zuko shook his head disbelievingly. “I only have two invitations.”

“Right,” Sokka said as they began to walk to the Tube station, “But we’re going to need some, like, outside people. Trust me, I’m the planner of our little group. I know these things.”

“... you’re the planner.”

“I am!” Sokka shook his head at Zuko as they swiped their cards and descended towards the station. “Ye of little faith.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Zuko smirked, warming up to their banter. “I’m trying to reconcile the genius “planner” and the bloke who let a random, definitely suspicious hotel clerk sleep over at his flat and then gave him Shreddies.”

“I resent your implications! You looked like a pathetic little drowned kitten.” Sokka protested. “And I don’t appreciate you dunking on my Shreddies, mister.” He accompanied his statement with several jabs at Zuko’s chest. They were now standing on the platform, waiting for the train.

Zuko grinned, turning to face the opposite platform and mouthing pathetic little drowned kitten while shaking his head. A light flush had built up on his cheeks.

They sat in silence for the duration of the ten minute Tube ride, but it was an amicable silence--the bitterness left in the wake of their argument that morning had faded almost immediately. Sokka knew they’d have to have a real conversation about it eventually, but he was perfectly happy to hold it off for as long as possible. For now, he had to figure out how to get Katara and Aang onboard with their admittedly insane plan to infiltrate a firebender party and get information.

He’d called Katara during his lunch break, telling her he’d be coming over with a friend and that she and Aang should be prepared to get cool with a lot of things very quickly. She’d agreed apprehensively, but seemed concerned when Sokka refused to tell her anything more over the phone.

They made it into Katara’s flat without incident--the only odd moment being when Zuko met Katara at the door. He’d frozen, staring into her electric blue eyes. Sokka and Katara both had blue eyes, but hers had always been more … thrilling was really the only word that could accurately describe them. When Aang got more than a little tipsy, he would wax poetic to a giggling Katara about how her eyes were shimmering pools of depth and majesty. Aang was one to talk about interesting eyes--his own were a deep, almost otherworldly grey. Between the two of them and Zuko’s own unrealistically golden eyes, Sokka was beginning to feel as though he was unconsciously collecting friends with interesting eye colours.

“Are there waterbenders in your family?” Zuko asked carefully once they were settled in the living room, Sokka and Zuko on the couch with Katara on an adjacent armchair and Aang perched on a pouf next to her.

Katara frowned. “We think our mum might have been one … why?” She was staring at him oddly, eyes flicking between him and Sokka.

“Oh, that makes sense--just, erm, your eyes. They’re waterbender eyes.”

“Huh.” She turned to face Sokka. “How do you know this bloke, again?”

Sokka quickly ran through their meeting and Zuko’s bedraggled appearance at his flat the night before, leaving out any details about the White Lotus and Zuko’s uncle. “I’ll let Zuko take it from here,” he finished lamely, hazarding a glance at the man to gauge his comfort level with that.

Zuko looked very wan and drawn, his mottled scar standing out sharply against his pale skin. He turned to look at Sokka, who gave him an encouraging smile. The man took a deep breath, knotting his hands in the sleeves of his jumper, before beginning.

“Have you ever heard of the White Lotus?”

“There’s no way that’s all real,” Aang said breathlessly, some of the first words he’d spoken the entire afternoon. He and Katara had sat silently as Zuko went through the same spiel he’d given Sokka the night before, their faces twin expressions of shock and disbelief.

Katara was staring at the coffee table, a tiny crease forming between her eyebrows. “It makes sense, I guess. Fifty years of gradual takeover--centuries of gradual takeover, really--logically there would be a resistance movement formed at some point along the line.”

“Yeah, but--” Aang wobbled on his pouf, “--it’s not exactly an organized movement, right? Just a lot of firebenders believing they’re better than everyone and deserve to be in charge, and wreaking havoc wherever they can.”

“Internationally, yes, that’s true.” Zuko finally replied. “But in England, for whatever reason, the firebenders are a lot more organized. They’ve been around for a lot longer--a lot of people think they were heavily involved with the monarchy back in its heyday. Everyone is wealthy, and everyone has a few political figures in their pocket.” He smiles bitterly, his hand going to his scar. “There’s not much that can’t be achieved with a combination of brute force and manipulation.”

Aang noticed the movement. “Is that scar from a firebender, Zuko?” he asked, then when Zuko blanched, quickly added, “Sorry--you don’t have to answer.”

“No, it’s fine.” He picked at one edge of the scar. “It is from a firebender, but it’s an old wound.” He didn’t elaborate, and no one pushed him to. The room was silent, and the air felt heavy and still.

Katara stood up suddenly. “Tea?” she offered, addressing the room but smiling uncertainly at Zuko, who nodded in assent, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “Excellent.” She left for the kitchen, Aang trailing behind her to help carry the mugs out. Zuko and Sokka were alone.

“You holding up alright?” Sokka asked lightly, framing it as a joke but definitely properly concerned. Part of him wasn’t really sure Zuko had ever had more than one friend, and certainly not multiple at a time. “I think they like you,” he added.

“I’m fine,” Zuko replied, settling back against the couch. “We could definitely use their help if we’re going through with the party plan,” he admitted. “They could be outside help or go in as the couple the invitations are for.”

“Oh--the invitations are for a couple?”

“Yeah,” Zuko shrugged, “Some C-list firebenders. I got a little more information from my uncle’s friends--we were right, the party will be at some big-wig bender’s mansion. Shouldn’t be too hard to sneak in.”

“Sneak in where?” Aang and Katara returned, bearing several large mugs of tea just in time to catch the end of Sokka and Zuko’s conversation. They set them down on the coffee table before turning expectantly to the pair.

Katara had the same look in her eyes as when she found the box of fake spiders Sokka had been planning to spread around their school back in year seven. The Sokka-you’d-better-not-be-doing-what-I-think-you’re-doing look.

Sokka cleared his throat, casting a quick glance at Zuko, who was determinedly staring at his socks. “So Zuko was able to save some of his uncle’s journals from the fire,” he began, and watched Katara’s brow furrow at the same time as Aang’s eyes lit up.

Zuko took over, explaining the party and the relative likelihood of firebenders with information about the fire that burned down this hotel being there. He talked through the invitations--during which Katara and Aang shared significant looks that Sokka could not be bothered to try to interpret--and outlined a basic plan.

“We would have two people go in posing as the couple,” he began, leaning forward, “and two others sneak in as part of the caterers to be a lookout. I was thinking that you two--” he pointed at Katara and Aang. Sokka wasn’t wholly sure that Zuko knew their names yet. “--could be the couple, and Sokka and I could be back up.”

Katara was shaking her head, her hands clasped around her mug, “I don’t think Aang and I would be good as the couple. We’re the exact opposite of subtle and posh.”

That much Sokka could agree with. He remembered, against his will, the one time the three of them had all tried to go to a club as a group. Aang had busted out with some truly unfortunate dance moves reminiscent of the moves in videos Dad showed him of his years in university, and Katara had stood in the corner, completely mortified, until she’d drunk a sufficient amount (for her, very little) and eventually joined him. It was humiliating even to witness. But something else about her sentence struck him-- “You’re on board? That easily?”

Katara looked at Aang, who shrugged, “We talked about it after you called--we figured you would be coming over to talk about something like this plan just based on how evasive you were being. I was more in favour of it than Katara--I think she was hoping you were just coming over to introduce a new boyfriend or something.” Aang took a delicate sip of his tea, seeming to enjoy Sokka and Zuko’s twin splutters.

“In any case,” Katara added, “someone has to tag along to make sure you two don’t completely self-destruct. I’ve only known you for about an hour,” she nodded at Zuko, “but something tells me you’re a lot more impulsive than you let on.”

Zuko, much to Sokka’s surprise, laughed. “You wouldn’t be completely wrong.”

“I think I’m having a fever dream,” Sokka announced to no one in particular, “from which I would very much like to wake up.”

Aang leaned over the coffee table and snapped his fingers in Sokka’s face. “Wake up and smell the civil unrest, Sokka--we have an infiltration to plan.” He stood up and went to the small bookcase next to the kitchen doorway, rifling through a selection of battered tourist-type books: London A to Z, Best of London, Secret London: an Unusual Guide. From one of the dog-eared novels he produced an equally well-loved map, which he turned to spread on the coffee table.

Zuko obediently leaned over to peer at the map, prodding a finger at the Hampstead neighbourhood. “The party is here, in five days. The invitations make it out to be a celebration of sorts, though I can’t imagine what they could be celebrating.”

“General success at debauchery and mischief-making,” Sokka said sagely from the couch.

“In any case, it doesn’t really matter,” Zuko continued, determinedly ignoring Sokka. “All the couple needs to do is make sure they know the names of most of the firebender higher-ups there and convincingly schmooze up to them. And they need to figure out a way to eavesdrop on the clandestine meeting no doubt happening at the same time.”

“And dance,” Katara added. “Aren’t these events all about the dancing and mingling?”

“Well--yes,” Zuko admitted, gaze fixated on the map in front of him. “But I figured if the couple wasn’t comfortable with it, they could probably get away with hanging out on the outskirts.”

“No, no.” Katara had an evil little glint in her eye--Sokka found himself suddenly feeling incredibly fearful. “You two will be dancing. That way you can eavesdrop on the conversations of the other couples. Duh.”

“Duh,” Zuko echoed, his eyes darting over to Sokka. Wildly, Sokka thought about the idea of twirling with Zuko around the dance floor--about having those gold eyes trained on him and only him for entire minutes at a time. He also thought, vaguely, that Katara was definitely up to something. She could read his mind just as well as he could read hers, and his little infatuation with Zuko had not gone unnoticed--Sokka was half-convinced, ultimately, that Katara had only agreed to participate in their scheme to better torture him.

Aang wobbled back and forth on his pouf, still clutching his tea. “Do we have any information about the catering?”

Zuko very nearly sighed in relief at the change of topic--Sokka felt him relax into the couch before reaching into his jeans pocket to withdraw a crumpled sheet of notebook paper. “I have here the name of the catering company and the details about their uniform. It seems pretty basic--you and Katara should be able to find decent dupes at charity shops and maybe Primark.”

Aang nodded, and the room fell silent as the gravity of what the group was attempting settled on them. On its face, Sokka reasoned, the concept was pretty basic--sneaking into a party wasn’t necessarily difficult; he’d done it all the time in university. But the idea of firebenders, and Hampstead, and the way Zuko looked ill every time the neighbourhood was brought up--he definitely knew more than he was letting on. Sokka wondered, traitorously, the story behind his scar. How he’d ended up at the White Lotus besides his connection through his uncle. He wondered, in a brief fit of hysteria, if Zuko’s uncle was even real, or if he was just constructing an elaborate ruse to catch Sokka and his friends planning their small act of rebellion. Maybe Zuko was a firebender.

The Zuko sitting in Aang and Katara’s living room was almost an inverse of the Zuko that had sat in Sokka’s just twelve hours before--as the group shifted wholly into planning mode, he became cool and confident, expertly detailing the intricacies of firebender social protocol and current fashions.

“Zuko,” Sokka said, interrupting the man mid-explanation of the story behind the mansion the party was to be hosted at, “what happens if we get caught?”

Katara, who had been listening to Zuko’s stories with rapt attention, suddenly leaned back. She frowned, as though the thought had never occurred to her.

Zuko hesitated before responding. “The consequences of getting caught are part of why I was originally against going in the first place,” he finally admitted. “If we get spotted … if they get a clear shot of our faces … we’d basically have to go on the run.”

Sokka’d had an inkling that the firebender response would be something to that effect. They had a literal secret police force--of course they would go after suspected insurgents, especially any that made it so far into their base. “Bloody hell,” he groaned, tipping his head back and rubbing his palm over his eyes.

“When you say go on the run …” Katara began hesitantly, as though she was afraid to finish the question.

“I mean withdraw all your cash, quit your job, and get ready for a lot of uncomfortable travel for the rest of your life,” Zuko answered flatly. “The firebenders are rich and powerful, and have blackmail material for days on most major criminals--and politicians--in London. Once you’re on their shit list, there’s nowhere to hide without first completely disappearing off the map.”

Sokka’s knee-jerk response was to call it quits. He thought about Suki, and his tiny shitty flat that he loved regardless, and evenings spent at the pub getting completely pissed with his friends. His stupid job at the charity shop, where the same old lady came in every Friday to chat him up and peruse their selection of second-hand earrings. He didn’t want to abandon any of that--he didn’t think he had it in him to let it all go with barely a good-bye. But then he thought about Zuko’s heartbroken face as he talked about his uncle, and the countless news articles describing Parliamentary failures and firebender abuse of power. He thought about his mum.

Sokka took a deep breath. “Look, there’s no need for--for mental gymnastics, here. I don’t have a lot in London ‘cept you lot--and I’ll admit that freely. For me, the choice is pretty clear: I’m gonna stick with Zuko. I think we could do some good … and I think it’s what Dad would want,” he finished firmly, sounding much more confident and secure than he felt.

Katara was the next to speak, her eyes wide and bluer than ever. “I can’t pretend that this is an easy decision to make. I’m--we’re all--barely out of uni … it’s a lot to throw that all away in the name of vigilante justice. But I’ve seen firsthand the horrors the firebenders have inflicted on people--” and here Aang reached over and took her hand, “--and I believe in a better future. Maybe it’s silly to throw so much hope onto one little party, but … I’m in.” One hand clutched her tea, while the other went to her necklace. Sokka knew she’d been thinking of their mum, too, and felt a brief burst of love for his sister.

“This is a pretty solid way to fill a gap year,” was all Aang had to add, grinning all the while, “You all know I’m in.” Sokka had to admire Aang’s ability to adjust to literally anything, any time, anywhere.

Zuko coughed awkwardly. “Glad that’s all settled. Though I think life on the road will be a lot less glamourous than you’re all no doubt imagining right now.” Sokka had to suppress a snicker, as Zuko had said almost word-for-word what dream-Katara had chided at him the previous night.

Aang smiled winningly. “But, hey, it’s only an issue if we get caught!”

Katara gave a nervous exhale, laughing shakily. “I guess I’d better go pack a bag.”

Chapter Text

The week passed slowly, almost mind-numbing in its normalcy. Sokka quit his job at the charity shop, a decision he tried not to think too hard about--Suki had been the hardest to tell, even though she’d taken it reasonably well.

“What, moving on to greener pastures?” Suki had been leaning against the front counter, repeatedly tossing the cap of her biro up in the air.

“Something like that,” Sokka said vaguely. It was late in the evening--his last shift hadn’t been closing, but it was close now that he’d stuck around to chat with Suki. He picked at the sleeve of his worn overcoat, which had become more than necessary as the temperatures continued to drop.

Suki frowned at him, then moved off to help a customer by the fitting rooms. Sokka considered making a break for it--what could he say to explain his systematic disappearance off the face of the Earth? Katara had taken a sabbatical from her Masters program, hoping that she’d eventually be able to return to it, and Aang had already been taking a gap year before starting university.

Zuko was still living with Sokka. Sokka had no idea how he spent his time, though he supposed now that he’d quit his job he was about to find out.

By the time Suki returned from the customer Sokka had come up with a feasible lie. “I’m going to be off the grid for a bit. Katara is taking some time off from school and we’re going to travel.”

Suki snorted. “You’re already off the grid, Sokka, you don’t even have a mobile.”

“I resent that,” Sokka informed her. “I’ve had one in the past, I just didn’t like it--my landline works just fine.” This was true. He spent enough money on his laptop without needing another piece of technology to waste his time--plus somewhere in the back of his mind was a mini Dad, lecturing him about government surveillance and the importance of maintaining your privacy.

“I just hope Katara has one,” Suki said, shaking her head. “Knowing you two, you’ll end up stranded in the middle of a sheep pasture somewhere and never find your way out.”

“Very funny,” Sokka said dryly, then made a big show of checking his watch. “I’d better be off--there’s some curry takeaway somewhere calling my name. Enjoy the rest of your shift--I’ll look you up when I’m back in town.” Recognising that he’d begun to babble, he started backing away towards the door.

“Cheers,” Suki deadpanned, returning to behind the till.

Sokka threw her a salute, then walked out into the cold London evening. He supposed he felt bad for lying to Suki, but really--what could he have told her that wouldn’t have made him sound like a complete and utter loon? When it’s all over I’ll go tell her everything, he promised himself. A small, nervous part of himself wondered if it ever would be over, but he refused to think about it. We’re going to be fine.

He hadn’t been lying about the curry takeaway, however, because that genuinely was his plan for dinner. Zuko had asked for it specifically when Sokka had left for work earlier that day, and Sokka was quickly beginning to realize that the man was coming dangerously close to becoming a good friend. A fact that wasn’t necessarily surprising, really, or unwelcome at all, but definitely stressful. Very stressful, because Sokka’s stupid little infatuation with Zuko was very much not going away. It was, Sokka thought grimly, getting worse.

He picked up the curry, the plastic bag steaming as he left the restaurant. Why couldn’t he have met Zuko during the summer, where it at the very least would be a more reasonable temperature? Couldn’t they all go on the run during July? Did the revolution have to happen in the middle of November, was essentially Sokka’s main question.

And that was still Sokka’s question on Friday night, the night before the party. Because apparently firebender formalwear was different from normal formalwear, a fact Sokka did not hesitate to lament as he and Zuko trawled through charity shop after shop, searching for the right pieces to wear to fit in at the party.

“This was your idea,” Zuko reminded him after one particularly sour mutter at their third shop of the evening. He had several jacket options clutched in his arms and was balancing another on top of the stack, and Sokka was next to him holding several patterned button-downs and blouses.

“Yeah I’ll give you that, mate, but if I’d known political intrigue would involve so much time in charity shops I might have reconsidered,” Sokka groused.

Zuko frowned at Sokka from across the clothing rack. “You work at a charity shop.”

“Worked. And that’s exactly why I’m sick to death of them.”

Zuko rolled his eyes and passed Sokka a particularly hideous frilly periwinkle blouse, who scrunched his nose at the offered item. “Are you trying to dress us all as bad Bowie knock-offs?”

“It’s the fashion,” Zuko informed him, selecting a large silk scarf from a nearby display.

“Right.” Sokka stared at him doubtfully. “I thought firebenders were all ridiculously posh?”

“That’s not … exactly it.” Zuko hesitated before continuing, leading Sokka over to the two tiny fitting rooms in the corner. “Firebenders are proud to be so,” he began to explain, “and they believe themselves to be superior because of the aggression inherent in the bending style. It’s a point of pride to be a firebender, so the fashion of the upper crust reflects that. They want to stand out, essentially, both as a method of intimidation and as a way to identify one of their own.”

“Like those fancy birds that are all colourful to attract a mate,” Sokka said, and took the armful of clothes Zuko handed him to try on.

“I guess so.” Zuko took his own pile of outfits into one changing room, with Sokka in the one next door. “It’s not quite like that, though … just another way of demonstrating status. Because most of the clothing is expensive.”

“Weird,” Sokka grunted as he attempted to wriggle his way into some particularly tight high-waisted trousers. They were blue and matched oddly well with the same periwinkle blouse with massively large bell sleeves Zuko had shoved at him. “I’ve got the first outfit on,” he called.

“Yeah? Let’s see it, then.”

Sokka emerged to see Zuko in an equally ridiculous outfit that he somehow managed to look ridiculously fit in--silver slacks, a high-necked blood-red blouse, and a half-undone green cravat. I should not be attracted to you right now, Sokka found himself thinking. “You look like a vampire king,” he said instead.

“Well, you look … equally naff.” Zuko said stupidly, cheeks red and flaming. The fluorescent light of the shop buzzed and faded in and out above them, casting strange shadows on his face.

“Fuck off,” Sokka replied good-naturedly, then returned to his fitting room as the lights flickered back to normal. He heard Zuko sigh and do the same.

After another half an hour of more frills and brocade than Sokka could frankly handle, they settled on outfits for the party the following night and left the shop. Katara and Aang had already figured out their catering outfits, the servants having a much less ostentatious dress code. Lucky bastards, Sokka thought as he gripped his plastic bag of velvet and lace, this is going to suck so hard.

Sokka let himself be talked into one last night of takeaway as they made their way back to Zuko’s flat. It was embarrassing, really, how attached he’d become to Zuko in so little time. He explained it to himself as a simply a reaction to spending so much time together--they had their little routines and stupid arguments much in the same way Katara and Aang did. Because they lived together. Bickering was a natural part of … living together.

Very early on in their one week of living together, Sokka had discovered that Zuko loved rom-coms. It was terrible. Every night, Zuko took Sokka’s laptop and headphones and tucked himself into his armchair, ready to watch for the fifth time Sleepless in Seattle or Four Weddings and a Funeral. Zuko had offered to watch one with him earlier that week, but Sokka vehemently denied him, citing his fragile masculinity and a strong dislike of any and all romance films. The real reason, however, was that Zuko was planning on watching Blue Valentine, a film which had never failed to make Sokka sob horribly.

In any case, Sokka preferred to sit in the armchair opposite and pretend to read, watching Zuko watch his movies and marvel how he had so recently walked into his life, and yet it felt as though they’d known each other for years. He could never say any of this to Zuko, obviously, and instead masked any hint of seriousness with jokes and banter. Sokka never asked about Zuko’s past, and Zuko never offered up any hints about it--it was as though Zuko had simply popped into existence at the age of sixteen, working at his uncle’s hotel.

That night, however, Zuko seemed extra on edge. He sat curled up in his armchair, gripping his container of food as though it was likely to try to run away from him. Sokka couldn’t help but notice he was wearing the blue sweater from his first day, and between bites of food would tuck his chin into the neck of it in a way that was reminiscent of a nervous turtle.

Zuko was scared, Sokka realized belatedly, feeling more than a little stupid.

“Erm, d’you want to watch a film tonight?” he offered hesitantly.

Zuko eyed him warily. “Sure.”

“Great!” Sokka leapt up from his chair, setting his container on the floor and grabbing his laptop to put on the tiny table in front of the futon. “I was thinking The Goonies, since it’s good and light-hearted and involves a successful adventure, which would be good for morale.” Not waiting for a response, he went to his room and sorted through a small stack of DVDs to find the eighties film. The film had been old even when his dad was a kid, but it held up reasonably well and reminded Sokka of rainy days at home before everything had gone to shit.

He and Zuko settled at opposite ends of the futon--which was in its upright position, yes, but Sokka was still hyper-aware of the fact that this was where Zuko slept---and Zuko seemed to be half-falling off the edge of it. Sokka did his best to appear relaxed, and slowly Zuko settled more comfortably against the pillows, eyes half-lidded as he watched.

Sokka was quickly absorbed in the film and paid little mind to the man sitting next to him. He only ventured a peek near the end, to find that at some point Zuko had scooted much closer and was resting his head on the pillow closest to Sokka’s shoulder. Sokka looked at Zuko, and Zuko looked at the screen, and a single tear slowly etched its way down Zuko’s cheek. Onscreen, the young characters embraced their parents, chattering excitedly about their day’s adventures as the parents wrapped them in thick coats and pressed thermoses of tea into their hands.

Sokka allowed his head to drop down and rest on top of Zuko’s, who sighed shakily and leaned further into Sokka’s shoulder. They stayed like that, quietly together, as the end credits scrolled their way down the screen.

***

Katara laughed uproariously when Sokka showed her the clothing the next day. “Oh, dear,” she giggled, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “You’re going to look like a glam-rock superstar.”

“I think Zuko is completely taking the mickey,” Sokka fumed, gathering up the different items and shoving them back into his rucksack. The two were at his flat picking up the last of Sokka’s personal items, as Zuko had suggested they plant go-bags near the mansion in case they ended up in need of a quick exit.

“Oh, I don’t know. He is right about firebender fashion as a whole.” Katara paused, considering her next words. “That outfit is particularly garish, though.”

“Cheers,” Sokka said miserably, turning to dig around in his closet for clothes he thought someone on the run might wear. “This is hopeless.”

Katara yawned behind him, where she lay on his bed. “Just grab some jeans and a few sweaters. If we really end up on the run we can run to a charity shop or something to get some more weather-appropriate clothing. It’s not like you can fit wellies into your bag.”

“I’ve been spending far too much time in charity shops recently,” Sokka frowned, grabbing the clothes she suggested.

“Get used to it,” Katara snorted. “We won’t have any kind of an income.”

“Urgh,” was all Sokka had to say in response, and the pair lapsed into silence as Sokka finished packing, fumbling around in his flat for his toothbrush and other necessities, such as his deck of cards and a packet of crisps.

Katara had moved to the couch by the time he was nearly done. “What are you doing about your flat?” she wondered as he puttered around in the kitchen.

“I’ve offered it up to Suki while we’re ‘on our trip.’” Sokka sketched air quotes around the last few words. “She complains constantly at work about still having to live with her sisters, so I told her that as long as she pays the rent she can stay.”

“Huh. Smart.”

Sokka shrugged. “It was Zuko’s idea.”

Katara’s face twisted in a funny way, as though she was holding in a laugh. “Zuko, huh?”

“... yes?”

“Well, he’s a very smart boy.” Katara’s face was now carefully blank, but her eyes were sparkling with poorly concealed mirth.

Sokka emerged from the kitchen, shoving one last candy bar into his bag. “You’re exactly right. Posh, smart, and pretty--the whole package. Can we just get going now?”

“Bet you’d like to see his package,” Katara giggled, even as Sokka threw a nearby throw pillow at her. “Ow! I’m only teasing, Sokka, come on now.” She stood up from the couch and made a show of brushing herself off and adjusting her knee-length skirt, then picked up her anorak to put on. “Shall we?”

“Yeah, alright,” Sokka said sourly, swinging his rucksack over his shoulders. “You’re dressed like my year six maths teacher, by the way.”

Katara sniffed primly as she zipped up her coat. “There’s no need to be rude. I like this skirt. Aang says it fits my bum quite well.”

Sokka squawked behind her as she left the flat. “I do not need to know anything regarding what Aang thinks of your bum! Urgh!”

He and Katara were in charge of planting the go-bags near the mansion. They left Sokka’s flat for Hampstead, only stopping briefly in Camden to pick up Aang and Zuko’s bags and drop off Sokka’s party clothes. Zuko’s bag was nearly empty--Sokka had leant him his old rucksack from university, but all that was in it was his uncle’s journals and the knit jumper Sokka had given him on his first day. It was a mind-numbingly long commute to Hampstead, but Sokka had made sure they left early to allow them plenty of time.

The pair were mostly silent as they walked down the sidewalk to the mansion where the party would be at. Sokka had in his fist a crumpled piece of notebook paper, upon which Zuko had scrawled the address. He was doing his best not to stare too much at the houses surrounding them, but a little gawking couldn’t honestly be helped. They were on the outskirts of the heath, and massive trees hung over the street and choked the sidewalks and fences, their bare branches reaching out like so many bony fingers. Each house sported large brick and wrought iron fences, with motorized gates and keypad-locked entrances. For each well-lit, well-maintained house there were four other dilapidated mansions that looked as though they contained more than a few ghosts. London’s upper class had diminished significantly over the past decade, and this avenue was the proof.

“This is otherworldly,” Sokka said almost breathlessly, gripping the various bags and feeling very much like a dreadful hooligan on his way to cause some trouble. Which he supposed he was.

Katara nodded fervently, then extracted the paper from Sokka’s sweaty fist. “It’s just up ahead,” she said, nodding to the approaching driveway.

The house was set quite far back from the road, and had the same large wall surrounding it as all the other mansions nearby, and massive amounts of old, gnarled trees. But the branches were bare, and if Sokka jumped and tilted his head just so, he could glimpse a sparkling body of water--maybe a fountain?--and lots of shimmery glass and fresh brick.

The driveway was a hive of activity, however, with cars and lorries driving up and depositing large cases to be picked up by the waiting attendants. Party supplies, Sokka assumed, envisioning crate after crate of fancy wine and delicate white tablecloths. He and Katara slowly approached the property, looking for some thick shrubbery or a large statue they could tuck the bags behind.

One of the men milling about approached them. “Packages for the party?” he asked imperiously, barely looking at Sokka.

“Erm, yes?” Sokka replied, casting a desperate glance over to Katara, who just stared back in alarm.

The man nodded, pulling out a large pad of paper and checking something off with a green fountain pen. “Go through that side gate, there. Code is 3473. Look for Thomas, he’ll tell you where to go.” Not waiting for a response, he moved on to a car that had just pulled up behind them and began shouting about scheduling.

Sokka and Katara wasted no time, moving as quickly as possible through the crowd of delivery people to make a beeline for the gate. Once through, they paused for a moment to take in the sights of the grounds.

Sokka had been right--in the centre of the front yard was a massive fountain with multiple jets spewing crystal-clear arcs of water up in the air. There was a gravel pathway encircling the fountain that led from the main gate to the grossly ornate front door. A bank of windows lined either side of the entrance and a series of columns that supported the large balcony on the second floor. He counted at least five different chimney posts and could make out distant roof peaks that suggested outer buildings behind the mansion.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed, but Katara was much less starstruck.

“Come on,” she hissed, tugging his arm in the direction of the main gate, where large shrubs and carved topiaries lined the edge of the fence.

They found a place for the bags under a bush trimmed into the shape of what might have been a monkey, but possibly also a misshapen acrobat. “I really hope we don’t end up needing these,” Sokka muttered as he shoved the bags under the branches and gathered sticks and leaves in an attempt to disguise them. Katara stood behind him, keeping an eye on the steady stream of people and boxes coming in and out of several doors in the mansion.

“D’you think we should try to find Thomas?” she asked, tilting her head back to look at Sokka, who had stood up and was brushing the dirt from his trousers.

“Suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

Sokka had a sinking feeling in his gut as they approached one of the side doors leading into the mansion. The place was massive, and the party was bound to have hundreds of guests. How were they supposed to find any sort of useful information? Not to mention the fact that they barely even knew what they were looking for. He trailed miserably behind Katara as she poked her head in the first door they found. “Kitchens,” she told him from the corner of her mouth, then stepped back out.

“There were a bunch of people in there wearing the uniforms Zuko described,” she continued as they walked beside the house. “Aang and I should fit in reasonably well.”

“That’s great,” Sokka said weakly, following Katara further around the building. Behind the mansion was a massive indoor pool, walled in by large sheets of glass and wrought iron. The back grounds looked like a park--Sokka thought wildly about the pictures of the Boston Commons he had seen when they briefly touched on American history in school. The gardens were unkempt, but in a visually pleasing way that suggested they had been cultivated to emulate the classic English garden style. Paths wound their way around decorative ponds and outbuildings, leading into the surrounding centuries-old trees. He could barely make out the perimeter wall, choked as it was by thick vines and shrubbery.

“It’s a good thing we’re getting an idea of the layout, at least,” Katara was saying as they approached one of the outbuildings.

“... right.”

Katara peered into a window, then yanked her head back, face pale. “Firebenders,” she whispered, “So many firebenders.” Her eyes were wide and frightened.

“Firebenders?” Sokka hissed back. “What are they doing?”

Katara turned back to the window and chanced another quick peek, using the warped windowsill for balance. The outbuildings were in significantly worse shape than the mansion, by a long shot--the paint was peeling, and the brick wall was crumbling against Sokka’s sweaty palm as he leaned against it.

“I think they might be guards,” she muttered to him. “They’re all milling about the room with their hands on their holsters. They look--well, they look quite mean.”

“Let me have a look.”

Katara moved aside obligingly, and Sokka took a turn peering into the window through the dusty glass. Katara was probably right about the men in the room being guards--they were dressed in a more understated version of the firebender style Zuko had explained last night, with black flared pants and red high-collared shirts. Each bender had a holster looped through their belts, and Sokka gulped as he watched one man gesture wildly, his sleeve rolling up to reveal knives strapped to his wrists. He turned to Katara. “Why do they need weapons if they have their fire? Bit much, honestly.”

She made a noncommittal noise. “I have no idea, Sokka. We can ask Zuko when we get back. Which we should do, if we want to get back in time to dress for the party.”

“Right, yeah. Give up on the whole Thomas thing.” Sokka moved away from the window, joining Katara at her place against the wall. “Should we just go back the way we came?”

“Sounds good.”

They were silent as they retraced their steps through the garden, boots crunching on the gravel. Sokka was the first to break the contemplative silence, saying what he knew Katara was thinking too. “I think we’re in way over our heads.”

Katara sighed next to him, picking at the fluff on her hood. “This is certainly … more than I was expecting,” she admitted. “But I think the guards are a good sign, ultimately. It means there will probably be some important people at this party.”

“I guess so.” They made their way to the same gate they had entered through, and were almost down the driveway before they were stopped by a loud “Hey! You two, there!”

Sokka and Katara slowly turned to see the same man from earlier standing at the top of the driveway. “What did you two say your names were?”

“Wang … Fire,” Sokka blurted before Katara could say anything. He felt her livid stare burning a hole in his ear as he continued, “and this is my sister … erm … Sapphire.”

“Sapphire Fire?” The man repeated, sounding more than a little confused. He had one hand on his hip and was gripping his pad of paper with the other. There was a very small, wispy moustache quivering on his upper lip.

“Our parents had a shoddy sense of humour,” Sokka offered by way of an explanation.

“What were you dropping off?”

“Plates,” Sokka said at the same time as Katara said, “Flowers.”

“Plates and flowers,” Sokka confirmed, smiling winningly at the man, who looked increasingly harried.

“Right--well, can I expect you two back to help with the party tonight? We’re incredibly short-staffed.” The man sounded more than a little desperate, and muttered about pay cuts as he glanced down at his notebook.

“Totally,” Sokka said vaguely, taking a few creeping steps backwards. “We will definitely see you tonight, sir.”

The man nodded distractedly, marking a few words on a page in his notebook. “See you tonight, then, Wang--Sapphire.” He nodded in Katara’s direction before turning to chew out a sweaty young man holding two small boxes of what appeared to be jam preserves.

“You idiot!” Katara shrieked when they were an appropriate distance from the mansion. “You absolute fucking muppet!” She swatted him on the arm. “What were you thinking?”

Sokka gaped at her. “What? What the hell’s your problem?”

“You’re showing up as a guest tonight, Sokka! What happens if you run into him and he recognises you? That would ruin everything!” Katara sounded increasingly more panicked than angry, and Sokka finally processed how scared his little sister was as they walked to the Tube station.

He did his best to shift into big brother mode. “There’s no way that’ll happen, Katara, come on. He’ll be down in the kitchens, or the servant quarters, or running around the grounds keeping an eye out for couples necking in the bushes.” Katara’s lips quirked into a tiny smile at his words, and he sighed internally in relief. “Seriously. And I’ll be all made up into a Duran Duran backup dancer, anyway, so he won’t recognise me at all.”

“Fine.” Katara took a deep breath. “Sorry for the physical abuse.”

“Let’s not forget the insults--I think my ego is forever wounded.”

“Your ego can stand a little wounding.”

“I resent that!”

They made it back to Aang and Katara’s flat in plenty of time, where Zuko sat in the living room glaring at the two invitations and Aang stood in the kitchen with a cup of tea. It was near four--they had to be at the mansion in two hours. Katara immediately busied herself with tracking down the various pieces of her and Aang’s outfits, which really were rather simple--just jeans and a loose-fitting button-down.

Sokka sequestered himself in Aang and Katara’s tiny guest bedroom, yanking on the various pieces of his firebender ensemble. Zuko had picked out for him some atrociously high-waisted black pinstriped trousers, held up by braces that looped around his shoulders and crossed at his back. The shirt was the least offensive, being just a blue button-down, but was clipped at the collar by an atrociously large red phoenix brooch. Needless to say, Sokka felt like a complete pillock, and he made a point of exclaiming so as he exited the bedroom.

“You’ve forgotten your waistcoat,” was all Zuko had to say in response, standing at the mirror by the front door and adjusting his own matching brooch. Sokka cursed and reentered the bedroom, returning with a purple velvet waistcoat he reluctantly shrugged on.

Sokka couldn’t help but watch Zuko as he finished pinning his collar. Of course he still manages to look good, the prick, was all he could think as he stared at the man. Zuko had on a pair of wide-legged trousers cinched at the waist by a large studded belt, and a short-sleeve red button-down tucked in. Instead of a waistcoat, there was a large pink silk scarf thrown over the back of the nearby couch that Sokka assumed would be added last. The back of his neck was flushed red, and Sokka realized belatedly that Zuko was watching Sokka in the mirror, lips pressed together into a thin line. He looked very pained.

Feeling bold, Sokka marched over to the couch and picked up the scarf. “Need this?” he offered, and Zuko gave the barest of nods. Sokka wound the scarf around Zuko’s neck, taking time to make sure the folds landed cleanly on his collarbones and shoulders. Zuko stared fixedly at the wall behind Sokka all the while and appeared to be holding his breath. The silence stretched as Sokka’s hands lingered on Zuko’s chest, smoothing out the last of the wrinkles in the edges of the scarf.

Sokka cleared his throat. “Well, that’s that,” he said hoarsely, doing his best to sound nonchalant, and moved away from Zuko.

“Thanks,” Zuko muttered quietly, rubbing his hands across his face. The flush lingered, and Sokka remembered, almost against his will, waking up in the wee hours of the morning to Zuko’s arms tangled around him, face pressed burning hot against his chest. Sokka’s wolftail had long fallen out, and hair was plastered to his forehead from sweat--but he had been loath to move, guiltily wanting to savour each precious second.

Aang and Katara chose that moment to enter the living room from their bedroom, Katara smoothing her hair into a slicked-back ponytail while Aang fiddled with the buttons of his shirt. Katara paused in the doorway, eyes flicking between the space between Zuko and Sokka and the deep flush on Zuko’s face. She grinned evilly but said nothing, choosing instead to walk over to the mirror and plant herself between the two boys under the pretense of adjusting her ponytail.

“Shall we do a bunk, then?” Aang said blithely, marching to the door. The rest of the group murmured assent and followed him out the door. Sokka did his best not to feel like too much of an idiot and failed miserably.

The last vestiges of the sunset lingered on the roofline as they made their way to the Underground station--Sokka took a moment to stare at the clouds scuddling across the sky, their edges tinted pink. It was easier to look at the sky than it would be to consider the weight of what they were attempting.

As they approached the mansion after a relatively uneventful train ride--save for a few odd looks from the rush hour passengers--Aang passed out some flesh-toned earpieces he had picked up earlier that week. “They’re pretty cheap,” he admitted as they all messed with the battery pack and the many tiny buttons, “but they’ll work for tonight. Katara and I will keep an ear out for gossip in the kitchens and the periphery of the dance floor, then Sokka and Zuko can keep an inside eye.”

“And we’re keeping an eye out for … what, exactly?” Katara questioned, screwing the piece of tech into her ear.

Zuko ran a hand through his fringe, which he had insisted on slicking down over his scar. “People hinting at a meeting. Any words about the hotel or recent fires. Gossip about future attacks, even. Just anything we can get our hands on.”

Sokka went to scrub his eyes before remembering the eyeliner Katara had painstakingly drawn on him at Zuko’s insistence. “This feels a little vague,” he observed to no one in particular.

Zuko sighed, ignoring his comment. “If things turn sour, do your best to contact everyone else in the group, and immediately go to the front gate. Otherwise we’ll rendezvous at one by the fountain Sokka mentioned on the train.”

Katara nodded, her mouth a grim slash across her face. Aang and Sokka exchanged nervous looks. Privately, Sokka wondered about Zuko’s attitude--his sentences were short and terse, and he’d been snippy since Sokka and Katara had returned from dropping off the bags. The relative calmness he had exhibited that morning had long evaporated, leaving nothing but tension and hard edges.

He fell into step beside Zuko. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Zuko said shortly. “There’s just--a lot of things could go wrong.”

They were all four silent as they approached the mansion. The property had completely transformed in the few short hours it had been since Katara and Sokka were there--the fence was still choked with vines and trees but the gates were wide open, and people were spilling in and out, laughing and talking wildly with a fluidity Sokka had never seen before. Arms looped around shoulders and hands grabbed wrists--there was a distinct joy to the partygoers that was missing from the rest of London.

The joy, Sokka thought grimly, probably came from being worth millions of pounds and not needing to worry about getting taken out by secret police each time they left the house.

Aang and Katara split to go through the side gate, Aang offering Sokka and Zuko a quick jaunty salute before disappearing around the corner. Then Sokka and Zuko were alone.

“Erm, shall we?” Sokka offered his arm to Zuko, who reluctantly took it, nervously smoothing down his fringe over his scar. They approached the gate and did their best to blend in, Sokka plastering a wide grin on his face and doing his best to make Zuko laugh.

Night had completely fallen by the time they made it past the gates; the last vestiges of sunset had faded from the horizon. The grounds barely held any resemblance to how they’d appeared that afternoon-sometime in the last hours, there had been some serious magic and money pumped into the place. The fountain was still in the centre of the path, water slicing through the air in great arcs. Around it hovered tiny balls of glowing white fire, giving the water a glowing, otherworldly effect. The glowing fire was a continuing motif around the yard, great yellow streams of it flowing along the length of the path, while more tiny orbs floated like deadly fireflies around in the grass and trees.

“It’s beautiful,” was all Sokka could say, his eyes wide as he tried to take it all in. He supposed that being a firebender gave you some immunity to flames, and dodged a fire orb that had floated a little too close for comfort.

Zuko grunted noncommittally, leading Sokka to the front doors. Sokka realized as they walked that despite the eccentricities of their clothing, they were still severely underdressed. There were couples walking past with their faces painted entirely white save for thrillingly red lipstick, men wearing long red dresses with necklines that plunged to their navel, women in heeled boots that had points sharp enough to kill. It was all completely alien to Sokka.

And all around them, fire. As Sokka and Zuko entered the house, a woman laughed and waved at them from the bottom of a spiralling staircase, her hair styled into a birdcage-shape on her head with fire orbs bouncing around within it. The chandelier that hung down from the impossibly tall ceiling was consumed in a blue blaze, tiny glowing embers slowly drifting down and settling into guests’ hair. It didn’t seem to bother them, but Sokka swatted at the ash as it landed.

“Where do we go?” He hissed into Zuko’s ear.

“Hold on a minute,” Zuko whispered back, handing off the two invitations to a bored-looking firebender guard, who barely glanced at the cards before nodding them forward into the room past the entrance hall--a massive ballroom. No one had started dancing yet but people hovered on the edges, clutching champagne in flutes that were so thin and delicate Sokka thought one hefty squeeze would be enough to shatter them beyond repair.

Katara and Aang were silent in Sokka’s ear, which he hoped meant that they had safely made it to the kitchens and melted into the no doubt massive group of cooks and caterers. Sprinkled around the massive room were tiny round tables, upon which tiny plates of food were balanced in intricate stacks and patterns. As he stood in the doorway, he watched people in the same shirt and jeans outfit as Katara and Aang zip between the tables, replacing gaps in the formations.

Zuko and Sokka exchanged glances, then moved in unison to a nearby table that had champagne flutes balanced into a tall, spindly pyramid. They took two glasses and moved to the edge of the room, meandering over to a couple dressed in twin vermillion suits.

“It’s ridiculous,” the man on the left was saying, pausing to take a sip from his glass. “I asked specifically about tariffs relating to diamond imports and he had the audacity to laugh at me, the bastard. I didn’t get this suit by being laughed at.”

His partner made a sympathetic noise, responding with a similar anecdote about her experience trying to persuade a merchant to get her silks at a heavy discount. “So I burned down his establishment,” she finished with a light shrug, and the man laughed heartily.

Sokka was beginning to feel incredibly nauseous. He took a deep swig from his glass, eyes watering as the liquid burned the back of his throat and tongue--his head almost immediately began to feel fuzzy.

“I’d be careful with that.” The woman had turned to face him, smirking at his reaction to the drink, which was definitely not champagne. “More than a glass or two of it and you’ll be comatose.” Her eyes flicked between him and Zuko. “Be a bit of a bother for your boyfriend, here.”

Sokka looked at Zuko in a panic, who reached over and plucked the glass from Sokka’s loose grip. “He’s incredibly daft, unfortunately,” he said flatly to the woman, who laughed in response.

The two continued to spit pleasantries back and forth, and Sokka had to marvel at the deftness with which Zuko handled the conversation. There was no trace of his usual awkward sullenness--there was, really, very little trace of any emotion at all. The two spoke at length about tariffs and trade blocks until the woman’s date came up behind her, placing a hand on her lower back to lead her in the direction of more alcohol.

“Oh!” The woman leaned back over. “Do you know, Lee, if you’re looking to get more into black market goods, there’s a man here you should speak to--Zhang--he’ll have more information for you.”

“That would be great,” Zuko said slowly, casually reaching up to turn on his mic under the pretense of scratching his ear. “Though I’d hate to bore my date here with too much political back-and-forth.” Sokka really hated the thrill that ran through him at being referred to as Zuko’s date.

The woman waved her hand dismissively. “He’s not much for talking. Won’t take too much of your time. Check upstairs and ask around--someone there will know where to point you.” Her date tugged insistently at her waist and she rolled her eyes, but turned to walk with him. “See you around, Lee … Lee’s eye candy.” She winked at Sokka, then sauntered away.

“Firebenders,” Zuko muttered bitterly, almost just to himself. “They’re all the same.” A pause, then he said into his hand, “Katara? Did you get that?”

Silence. Then a voice crackled in the mic in Sokka’s ear: “Yeah, we heard. You guys should go check it out--Aang and I are kind of swamped here.” A crashing sound. “Shit, Aang--we’ll touch base later.” The crackling stopped. Sokka and Zuko looked at each other--Zuko’s passive mask had slipped and he looked very wan and pale.

At some point during their conversation with the vermillion couple, a band had set up in one corner of the room. Firebender couples had moved to the centre of the slick marble floor and were dancing together, in a style of dance Sokka had never really seen before except in movies.

There was no clear person leading in each pair--they alternating twirling and dipping each other, coming together and falling back apart. Sometimes they danced so close together it was almost obscene, legs pressed together and noses inches apart. One man lifted his partner onto his hips and spun in place, the woman’s ankles crossed at his back. Other couples rocked slowly back and forth, eyes locked only on each other.

Sokka then realized, a little belatedly, that he and Zuko were the only couple still standing on the fringes of the room. Every person that was remotely in a group or pair had moved to the dance floor, and he and Zuko were beginning to get a few askance looks from the couples that bothered to look away from each other’s faces.

Deciding it was once again time to be bold, Sokka reached for his glass still in Zuko’s hand and drained half of it. “Suppose we should go dance?” he offered, setting the glass down on the floor. He felt a pleasant buzz building at the base of his skull.

Zuko looked very much like he would rather die right there than do anything remotely like dancing. “I guess one dance couldn’t hurt,” he mumbled, and set his own mostly-full glass on the marble next to Sokka’s.

“Excellent,” Sokka beamed, and marched towards the centre of the floor, Zuko trailing behind him. “Do you know how to dance?” he asked once they were standing together.

“Barely,” Zuko said, taking Sokka’s hand and putting it on his waist, settling them into what Sokka vaguely recognised to be a waltz position. “Just follow my lead.”

Zuko did not barely know how to dance. He very much was very good at dancing, and Sokka could barely keep up. Zuko led him through dips and spins and twirls--slowly, but Sokka still found himself breathless as the song faded, his nose inches from Zuko’s.

A new song started up immediately, a fast-paced melody with lots of strings--the couples all murmured appreciatively and settled into a uniform position, straight-backed and severe, hands clasped tight at their sides.

“This is a traditional firebender dance,” Zuko explained quietly as he directed Sokka to do the same. The couples were now bowing to each other, and Sokka hurried to mimic them, almost knocking heads with Zuko in the process. “Pay attention,” Zuko hissed, drawing Sokka close, his hand pressed tight against his lower back.

“Uh huh,” Sokka squeaked, gripping Zuko’s upper arm like it was the only thing between him and a steep fall. As a metaphor for their current situation, the visual worked quite well.

The couples were now circling each other, hands raised in each other’s faces. Sokka blinked, watching them. Was that--fire? Above each hand, a tiny flame hovered. As he watched, the couples joined hands and the flames merged, casting flickering shadows on each partner’s face.

Sokka turned back to Zuko, who was leading him through the same motion minus the fire. “We can’t do that!” he whispered, definitely panicking.

“It’s fine.” Zuko looked very resigned. “They won’t notice.”

And no one did--they had no space to notice, because the dance, despite its slow start, was rapidly picking up in intensity. Couples around them split and merged with other groups, spinning together as if they were spokes of a turning wheel. As they did so, the flames split and recombined, changing in size as the group sizes fluctuated. If someone were to watch from a high point in the room, the whole scene must have looked very strange--an undulating mass of coiffed hair and colourful outfits, mixing together with large flames and copious amounts of tulle. It felt completely alien to Sokka, and he clung to Zuko as the only thing that was even remotely familiar.

Zuko’s face was impassive as they danced; a blank mask. He danced with impressive precision, as though the moves had been ingrained into him for his entire life--he lifted and spun Sokka and barely a hair fell out of place, letting out a brief exhale as the only hint that it had caused him any exertion.

Sokka thought about the one memory he had of dancing at a party like this one--it was his Gran-Gran’s birthday, and she lived in this massive home out in Devon that Sokka usually hated visiting because of how empty and drafty it was there. That weekend, however, the house had felt warm and full of life. Sokka had been very small--he must have been, because he remembered dancing with his mum. She had led him in a slow waltz with his tiny feet balanced on top of her’s, right next to the record player that was scratchily working its way through a series of string melodies. It was one of his last memories of her.

Sokka’s gaze shifted as the dance slowed--he was looking at the walls and the elegantly carved wood moulding that wrapped around the room. It was easier to look at the walls than continue to make such intense eye contact with Zuko, whose face, though expressionless, gave the general impression of disdain and made Sokka uncomfortable. He chanced a quick glance back at Zuko’s face and found him looking intently into Sokka’s eyes, his face soft and open. Sokka felt himself flush and watched a twin blush erupt on Zuko’s cheekbones under his fringe. They really were dancing very close together.

Distantly, Sokka became aware of the pace of the music slowing down. The groups around them broke off into individual couples again.

“Fuck,” Zuko cursed suddenly. “I’d forgotten how this dance ends.”

Sokka frowned. “What? How does it end?”

Zuko looked at him miserably. “Just--don’t hate me too much.”

Zuko did not kiss like he had much experience, Sokka observed somewhere in the back of his mind. But that really, really didn’t matter, because Zuko was kissing him--aggressively, quickly, he shoved his mouth against Sokka’s as though he were afraid that if he tried to savour it, Sokka would disappear. His hands fisted at the back of Sokka’s waistcoat while Sokka’s hands went almost immediately to Zuko’s hair and for a moment they stayed like that, kissing desperately under the light of hundreds of flickering flames.

“What,” Sokka gasped as they separated suddenly, “the fuck?”

Zuko didn’t answer, just grabbed Sokka’s hand and tugged him through the mass of still-snogging firebender couples. Would have been nice to stay like that a little longer, Sokka’s brain worms observed traitorously. Sokka realised, dimly, that Katara was speaking in a crackly sort of way in his ear.

“--find that Zhang guy,” she was saying. “Heard from some staff there’s a meeting in the parlour upstairs.”

“Got it,” Zuko muttered, leading Sokka back to the large staircase they had passed on their way in. “It’s my boyfriend, he’s terribly ill,” he explained breathlessly to the guard, who raised an eyebrow but let them through. Sokka did his best to appear terribly ill, which wasn’t hard as his head swam from the alcohol working its way through his system.

They ran quickly up the stairs, Sokka nearly slipping twice on the slick marble that seemed to coat every surface of the mansion. The carved wood mouldings continued in the halls upstairs, Sokka observed as they dashed between rooms, looking for the parlour Katara had mentioned. Zuko froze outside a closed door, leaning forward to catch the words being spoken inside the room.

“... using it as a smuggling base,” one voice was rumbling quietly. Sokka leaned forward to better hear, his chin hovering over Zuko’s shoulder. Zuko didn’t smell the same as he had when Sokka’d met him all those weeks ago--he smelled like Sokka’s shampoo.

“No, that’s too dangerous,” another man said. “We still don’t know for sure that we got the boy.”

Sokka felt Zuko take a sharp breath beside him. What are they talking about? He didn’t feel safe enough to ask, and Zuko looked as though he was desperately hanging onto every word that made it through the thick wood door.

“His uncle is gone, Zhang. There’s no reason for the boy to not have made it either.”

“I will not stake my operation on the assumption--the guess--that the fire got them both. There’s no guarantee, and I’ve poured tens thousands of pounds into this.” Zuko was practically vibrating with tension next to Sokka, who was still massively confused, his brain working at half its usual speed. Uncle? Fire? Had it really been so easy to stumble upon information about the hotel fire?

The other man, not Zhang, sounded frustrated. “I’m hemorrhaging money--what other building would you have me use?”

“Sell out of your flat, for all I care! Zhao gave no clear reason for wanting the hotel gone, so I won’t have you risking his trust in me on your smuggling operation.”

The conversation continued indistinctly. Zuko leaned forward in an effort to hear more, but only succeeding in losing his balance and landing softly on the plush burgundy rug that ran the length of the hall. Sokka was not so lucky--as he fell against Zuko, his hand flew up and struck the wall with a loud thunk. The two voices inside the room fell silent.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Sokka stood, frantically tugging Zuko up with him. “Let’s go, come on!” There was a thumping sound from inside the room that sounded very much like two pairs of large boots making their way to the door. Zuko stood up slowly, as if in a daze. He snapped to life as the door was flung open, revealing two heavily armoured men in leather jackets and dark jeans. Time seemed to freeze, Sokka holding Zuko’s arm and Zuko staring into the eyes of the man in front of him.

“You,” the man breathed, and that word pushed Zuko immediately into motion. He shoved Sokka forward and the pair sprinted down the hall towards the stairs they had come up from. The sound of boots thumping resumed, and Sokka, for one wild moment, was cast back to the first night he’d met Zuko, being chased by the drunken firebender louts. He wondered, in an absurd moment of clarity, if they’d been there to do reconnaissance for the arson that occurred only weeks later.

He and Zuko stumbled down the stairs, grabbing wildly at each other and the railing in an effort to control their descent. Zuko was shouting into his mic warnings to Katara and Aang to get to the fountain now, yes, right now. It was barely eight. Sokka had to marvel at how quickly he and Zuko had managed to make a complete cock-up of the evening.

They made it outside with the firebenders snapping at their heels--instead of Zhang and his companion, there was a large mass of guards shoving their way through groups of confused guests towards Sokka and Zuko. Katara and Aang were standing at the fountain, eyes wide and terrified. Katara’s eyes looked to be glowing a neon blue under the flickering flames, and her shirt was rumpled and sticking to her with sweat. Aang was in a similarly dishevelled state.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze again. Sokka, Katara, Aang, and Zuko all stood in a line together in front of the fountain, facing the mansion and, by extension, the rapidly expanding group of firebenders. One by one, the guards’ hands lit up with flames as they prepared the onslaught--some took out knives and the fire enveloped the blades as well. Sokka didn’t know what Zhang had told them, but the firebenders didn’t look like they were planning on taking them all in for questioning. They looked ready to kill.

Sokka remembered learning in school how bending used to be considered an art, with precise forms and styles that varied between each element. His teacher had flipped through photos and paintings depicting bending that looked more like dances, both delicate and impossibly deadly at the same time. Somewhere along the last few hundred years, those techniques had faded away, leaving in their wake a nearly uniform style of bending across the four elements that could be boiled down to one word: unforgiving.

All of this flashed through Sokka’s mind as he watched the approaching firebenders. He turned and looked at Zuko, whose hair was slicked back with sweat and revealed his scar, in strong relief against his face under the sickly blue light from the fountain.

Desperately, Sokka tilted his head up to look at the night sky, barely visible beyond the multicoloured flames that decorated the grounds. If he was about to die, his final view might as well be pretty.

Then the flames were gone and the night sky was revealed, the full moon beaming down on the dim and shadowy yard. Sokka blinked, returning his eyes to the firebenders. Their flames were gone, too, completely snuffed out, as though someone had dumped a large bucket of water across them.

“What-” he began, but was interrupted by a large roar behind him. Like Devon, was his only thought before he was swept up in a large wave of grimy fountain water. Sokka reached out blindly and grabbed at the first pair of hands he felt, and together they tumbled around in the water, tiny white bubbles swirling around them. His chest almost immediately felt tight and he resisted the urge to take a large gasp for air. Everything was dark around him except for two tiny pinpricks of blue in the distance.

Someone was screaming. As quickly as the wave had risen it fell away, leaving Sokka and Zuko gulping for air on the soaked grass, still gripping each other’s hands. They lay there, feeling the ground quiver beneath them. Through one half-open eye, Sokka watched a figure walk slowly to the mansion. There was more yelling now, and confused chatter. What the hell just happened? Sokka focused on the feeling of Zuko’s hands in his own, trying to come back to Earth. He blinked a few times, and the world spun nauseatingly around him. Around him water began to swirl again, tiny droplets flying up from the grass and coalescing into an undulating mass that hovered a few metres off the ground.

“Sokka! Zuko!”

Aang was running up to them, equally soaked and gasping for breath. “We have to go, now.” He reached for their hands and helped them up, then ran a shaky hand over his shaved head. They had to duck to avoid the mass of water floating above them.

“Where’s Katara?” Sokka stared at Aang, who mutely pointed towards the mansion.

Katara was standing halfway between the mansion and the fountain, quivering arms raised above her head. She was completely dry, but her hair had fallen out of her ponytail and was floating around her. Sokka looked to where her hands were and saw them buried in the mass of water, for all intents and purposes appearing to be holding it up.

“Go!” she shrieked at them, then turned her attention fully to the terrified mass of sopping-wet firebenders that quivered under the balcony.

Sokka, Zuko, and Aang turned without protest and sprinted towards the main gate. Behind them, they heard another roar of water and the sound of breaking glass and cracking wood. Terrified screams erupted from the firebenders that were quickly choked off by the rolling waves and replaced with ominous gurgling.

There was no lighting on the grounds anymore--either Katara had extinguished the flames or the bender responsible for them had been caught up in the onslaught. Sokka tripped repeatedly on stray rocks and tree roots that were half-hidden under the grass, and each time Zuko yanked him up without comment or preamble. They were still holding hands. Aang sprinted ahead of them.

A great gust of wind sent Sokka, and by extension Zuko, flying out past the gate and into the road, where they were met by a shaking Aang. Katara, it turned out, was not far behind them--she flew out into the road, then stood up and ran to shove the gate shut behind her. Her irises still glowed neon, but as she took a few deep, shuddering breaths they faded to their normal--though still fluorescent--blue.

“Hi,” she said lamely as the boys all blinked at her. “We should probably still keep running.”

Chapter Text

Kissing Zuko wasn’t like anything else Sokka had ever experienced. He thought about a book he’d read a few years ago, a book that used to belong to his dad. He didn’t remember the title, but he remembered the narrator talking about how someone couldn’t be a great kisser on their own, how it wasn’t like being super smart or playing guitar; it needed another person. The book was, ultimately, more about loneliness, and the assertion about kissing just a footnote. It had been his dad’s favourite, and Sokka read it one night in a fit of sadness, desperately wanting to connect with him. It hadn’t explained anything, really, not in any way that made sense. He remembered that the narrator had been deeply sad.

His dad had been sad, too, Sokka remembered as he leaned back against the brick wall. The night was cold and dark around him, and everyone else was inside, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to go join them just yet. He was thinking about Zuko, and his father, and that book.

His dad had been dead for years, now. He’d wandered off one night, talking about fixing things, about ending things--not in a serious way, not like he was going to fix anything that mattered, but in the abstract way he talked sometimes. Sokka had been young--maybe fifteen? Sixteen? And Katara was barely older. They’d gotten along fine without him, in the physical and fiscal sense, but Sokka never was quite the same after that. He’d finished secondary school, went to university, then--stopped. Content with the charity shop, content with his flat, content with third-wheeling Katara and Aang; if he couldn’t do anything for his dad, in the end, why try to do anything for himself?

Then Zuko. Then Zuko, and his journals, and his--not hope, exactly--but visions, his quiet strength. Sokka realised, sitting there on the freezing cold dirt, that Zuko had come to represent a lot more to him than just a crush or passing fling. Sokka looked at Zuko and he felt hope.

That night still felt like a terrible dream. They had all ran like hell from the mansion, the remains of the front entrance smouldering behind them--Katara later told them that she’d completely collapsed the balcony, front hall and main staircase. She’d said it quietly, guiltily, knowing that unspoken was the message that many of the people there had died, either drowned or crushed under the brick. Katara hadn’t spoken much at all since the party.

They camped out in one of the crumbling mansions that sat vacant along the avenue, close enough to the destroyed mansion that as they sat in the musty parlour at the front of the house they could watch police vehicles scream back and forth, and later in the night, the ambulances. In the chaos of their exit they forgot the go-bags, and no one was brave--or stupid--enough to try to go back. Katara had burst into tears when she tried to bend the water out of Aang and the boys’ clothes.

“I’m sorry,” she’d sobbed as Aang folded her into a hug, “I try to, and all I can think of is the brick coming down around them.” Her eyes were red-rimmed and haunted as she stared over his shoulder into nothingness.

They were staying in the derelict mansion longer than was strictly safe, exploring all the different nooks and crannies and feeling very much like rabbits tucked in their warren. Sokka had gone late one night and picked up their bags from the mansion grounds, unable to avoid staring at the remains. Some police officers still crawled around debris, but the house itself was empty. The front looked as though a bomb had gone off on the front porch, and the fountain was dry.

They subsisted on the oat bars and crisps Katara had the foresight to pack, but Aang was the only one brave enough to sample from the dusty jars of preserves they found in the root cellar. He proclaimed them tasty and didn’t seem to experience any adverse side effects, but no one else felt like giving the suspicious jellies a try.

“You’re all cowards,” Aang had shrugged, and finished the jar over the course of the day.

Sokka had taken to wandering around the house with Zuko. They didn’t talk about the kiss, nor the party at all, but Sokka had firmly decided that they didn’t need to. There were more things to worry about than his stupid little crush, and in any case, the kiss was just part of the dance. No extra feelings or anything. Sokka still thought about those few seconds more than he reasonably should, but that was between him and his brain worms. Zuko didn’t need to worry about it.

None of them had wanted to sleep alone, though there were enough mildewed bedrooms to accommodate a group three times their size. Instead, Sokka and Aang had run around grabbing armfuls of musty blankets and quilts to bring into the front room, and everyone took a couch or a patch of floor. They could close the large double doors leading into the room and yank shut the ancient brocade curtains shut. But that didn’t mean they slept well.

Sokka certainly didn’t, and it was then that he would commence his nighttime walks. More often than not he would sequester himself in a corner near a patch of moonlight and read one of the thick, dusty books that littered the house until he passed out.

That night, he was in the study. One of the two massive dark wood desks was stuffed with old journals filled with spiky script detailing complicated diagrams, alternated with notes about menial tasks related to maintaining the mansion--someone had loved the derelict building a lot, many years ago. Sokka had found the treasure trove last night, and was excited to continue reading as sleep continued to elude him.

Sokka cracked open a thin glass window above the desk before settling into the dusty velvet of the desk chair, then yanked a matchbook out of his jeans pocket to light a few stubby candles he’d collected from around the house. He paused, considering, then took the pack of cigarettes tucked into his shirt pocket to light one. Sokka wasn’t necessarily proud of his smoking habit, but living in a derelict old mansion was stressful enough without denying himself a few simple pleasures.

“What are you doing?” rasped a voice from behind him, and Sokka coughed and hacked in surprise, having just taken a deep drag before being startled so completely.

“Hi, Zuko.” Sokka squinted through the darkness at the man standing in the doorway and absentmindedly tapped the excess ash onto the warped floorboards.

“I didn’t realize you smoked,” Zuko said as he approached Sokka, sitting down on the wooden stool that was set next to the desk (Sokka often put his feet up while attempting to decipher the journals).

Sokka looked guiltily at the offending roll of tobacco. “Bad habit, but yeah. We all have our little picadillos.”

Zuko rolled his eyes and reached out, beckoning for Sokka to hand him a cigarette. They sat in silence, watching the smoke curl through the shafts of moonlight that broke up the hazy candle-lit darkness of the study.

“It’s almost December,” Zuko said suddenly through the smoke. It was--fall was slowly bleeding into winter as they all hid in limbo in the mansion. Every day, new cracks in the walls and ceilings were discovered as rain beat down all around them; the ever-present dampness threatened to sink into Sokka’s bones and linger there forever.

“Yeah.” Sokka looked out the window, where rain lashed against the glass. Some had come through the opening and was pooling in the centre of the windowsill, dripping onto the desk. “We can’t stay here much longer. The police have been working their way through each mansion.” Every day, Sokka could sit up in the attic and peer through the tiny window at the policemen that crawled like ants around the surrounding mansions.

Zuko scooted the stool until he could lean against the desk. “Suppose it’s only inevitable that they’ll end up here. Can’t hide in the basement or anything, can we?”

Sokka snorted. “Definitely not.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” Zuko said airily, then paused to take a drag. “What’re you reading?”

Sokka looked down at the journal sitting in his lap. “One of the previous owners left this desk full of notebooks and the like. I’ve been digging through them. Can’t really make heads or tails of any of it, though.”

Zuko stuck the cigarette between his teeth and gestured for Sokka to hand him the journal. “Give it here.” Sokka handed him the notes without comment, and watched the candles flicker intensely as Zuko flipped through the water-damaged pages.

“They were studying bending,” Zuko said finally, just as Sokka’s eyelids were beginning to droop.

“What?” Sokka shook himself and leaned forward, peering at the script. “I must have missed that.”

Zuko nodded, tracing his finger over the lines of text. “It’s really old … probably from around 1950. So this was all written at least a century ago. Maybe more.” He flipped the book around, pointing at one block of text in the middle of one page. “I don’t know if they were a bender themselves, but they knew someone who was a … waterbender, I think.” He snapped the book shut at the expression on Sokka’s face. “Did you really not know?”

Sokka shook his head. “I don’t think she even knew. You remember how she reacted when you asked her about waterbenders in our family--she looked just as confused as I felt.”

“Maybe it was for the best she never knew.” Zuko said slowly. “With the raids and all.”

“The raids …” Sokka echoed, staring at the porcelain bowl he’d shoved in the far corner earlier to catch the water drips. He sat up suddenly, eyes wide. His mum’s death … the firebenders must have been looking for Katara, following rumours about potential waterbenders. And their mother had taken the fall. He suddenly felt very ill, and stubbed his cigarette out on the side of the wooden desk.

Zuko was staring at him piercingly, one hand holding the journal and the other resting on the desk. He really was sitting very close, Sokka observed, and sunk back into his chair to increase the distance between them. Sokka really couldn’t trust himself around Zuko. Not since the kiss, memories of which filled his head every time he did manage to sleep--Zuko’s smell, Zuko’s lips, Zuko’s hands.

Sokka cleared his throat. “Is there anything in there about learning how to waterbend?”

“Maybe. I just skimmed it.” Zuko hadn’t stopped making strong eye contact with Sokka, and as a result Sokka was starting to feel very warm despite the freezing temperature in the study. Zuko leaned forward a bit, and Sokka leaned back, pushing himself further into the thick plush of the chair. Zuko looked hurt for a moment, then resigned, then slipped back to his usual impassive mask. Sokka tried not to feel too disappointed.

“Maybe Katara could learn from it,” Sokka offered.

Zuko’s eyebrows lifted towards his hairline. “Maybe,” he said, considering the idea. “Yeah, that might work. I’ll read through it. I can probably teach her.” His eyes shimmered even in the dim light from the candles, making him look distinctly other, more so than even when Sokka had seen him under the light from the glowing fountain.

“I could teach her,” Sokka decided to say instead, sounding more miffed than he intended.

Zuko was already shaking his head before Sokka finished his sentence. “No, I’d be better for it. Cause firebending is actually quite similar to waterbending.” He returned to the journal and flipped through a few more pages, not seeming to have fully processed what he’d just said.

“Firebending? What do you know about firebending?” Sokka asked incredulously.

“Oh, erm, just what my uncle’s told me.” Zuko looked very pale and ghostly all of a sudden. “White Lotus had a lot of firebender contacts--I have … notes and the like about it.” He seemed to be scrambling to find the right words.

“Right,” said Sokka suspiciously. He didn’t really think Zuko was a firebender--it certainly would have come up already if he were. It was just the principle of the thing--against his will, the image of Katara gasping and crying into Aang’s shoulder played against his eyelids. He looked at Zuko and the sharp angles of his face, thought about the intensity with which he did everything--

“Just be nice to her,” he said finally.

Zuko looked at him, noticed the tension in the way Sokka’s lips were pressed together. “Of course I will.”

“Right. Good. Well,” Sokka made a great show of yawning widely, “I should be off to bed. Big day of wandering this stupid drafty pile of bricks tomorrow.” He stood up, ruffling Zuko’s hair in a casual, hanging-out-with-my-mate kind of way on his way to the door. “G’night.”

“... night,” Zuko said quietly, then shifted over to the plush chair Sokka had abandoned. He seemed to be settling in for a night of studying the ancient journals.

Sokka made his way back to the parlour, skipping the steps he knew to be extra creaky. Katara and Aang had taken one of the large couches with the least amount of grey stuffing oozing out of it. Katara lay half on top of Aang, tucked between him and the back of the couch; Aang had one arm lazily curled around her while the other dangled off the couch. They were both surrounded by a halo of pillows, Aang’s face smushed indelicately into one terrifically ugly paisley-patterned throw. They both looked disgustingly at peace--despite the chaos and relative uncertainty of their current circumstances, they still had each other.

Sokka watched them for a few seconds, then turned to curl up on the other smaller loveseat with a duvet that refused to lose its damp smell. He didn’t expect to be able to sleep, but pretending to in the parlour was better than sitting awake in the dark with Zuko. Dimly, Sokka became aware of the sound of steps creaking above him. His eyes finally drifted shut as he watched Zuko enter the parlour, gently shutting the large door behind him.

***

Sokka woke up to the feeling of being heavy and warm. An odd feeling, because he primarily associated being in the drafty mansion with being perpetually cold and damp, but as he slowly drifted up from a haze of grogginess he knew he was very much warm and comfortable.

Sokka took a moment to process his surroundings. Loveseat, yes. Duvet, yes. But the weight--? The warmth? He blinked and tried to shift around. Couldn’t move. Heard a soft groan from somewhere above him. Sokka checked all these observations off like hit points on a list, all pointing towards the conclusion that--and here he turned his head slightly to confirm--Zuko was laying with him on the loveseat, half on top of Sokka and half shoved against the back of the couch. Sokka realised uncomfortably that they were mirroring the exact position Aang and Katara had been in the night before.

He wriggled in annoyance beneath Zuko, helpless beneath the man’s dead weight. Zuko shifted in response, but distinctly not in the way Sokka had wanted him to--instead, he lazily wrapped one arm around Sokka’s waist and tugged them closer together. If Sokka were a cartoon character, he was pretty sure he’d have steam pouring out of his ears.

Zuko sighed into the nape of Sokka’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. Sokka cast his eyes around desperately for an escape, noting with some relief that Katara and Aang still appeared to be dead to the world, a tangle of limbs and snoring mouths.

“Zuko,” he hissed, seeing no other option. “Wake up.”

Zuko muttered something unintelligible but otherwise didn’t react, his hand fisting in the soft cotton of Sokka’s shirt, knuckles brushing against bare skin.

“Zuko! Up!” Sokka punctuated his words with a sharp elbow into Zuko’s side.

It certainly did the trick--if by doing the trick Sokka intended for Zuko to flail awake dramatically and shove Sokka off the loveseat entirely. As Sokka lay on the cold floor, he couldn’t help but mourn the abrupt loss of warmth, and pointedly ignored the tingly feeling that lingered from where Zuko’s hand had been. The mourning period did not last long, however, and Sokka quickly sprang up to interrogate Zuko, who was sleepily tangled in the duvet, looking seconds from dozing off again.

“Care to explain?” Sokka whispered, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt.

“No more available couches.” Zuko mumbled into the duvet. Which was gross, because the duvet was very much very old and very nasty. “’n it was cold. Figured you wouldn’t mind.” He yawned and stretched his arms almost indecently, then dropped back against the cushions. Sokka had spent enough time with Zuko to know that the man’s stoic facade completely slipped in the first few minutes of the morning, but there was something extra disconcerting about his general softness in that moment.

“I hate you so, so much,” Sokka said, half to himself. “We are never speaking of this again.”

Zuko shrugged from his pile of musty linens. “Suit yourself.”

Sokka sent him a glare of what he hoped was epic proportions but probably just looked more petulant than anything else. Whatever. Nothing wrong with a little platonic cuddling for warmth between mates. He stood up and, pointedly ignoring Zuko, made his way to the kitchen to forage for breakfast.

“Sokka and I made a discovery,” Zuko announced later that morning as they all sat around one corner of the massive wood table in the crumbling dining room. He had dark purple marks under his eyes as though someone had gone to him in the night and pressed their thumbs there until it bruised. Sokka wasn’t sure how long Zuko had actually slept with--erm, adjacent to--Sokka the night before.

Katara looked up suspiciously from her oat bar. “Yeah?” She offered no hint at having witnessed Sokka and Zuko’s cuddle pile. Thank fuck.

Zuko took her hesitant words as confirmation to continue, dropping the large journal from the night before on the worn tabletop. “One of the previous residents studied bending. I think I could teach you.”

Silence filled the cavernous space. Katara had grown very pale. She hadn’t attempted to try waterbending since the night of the party, and no one had dared to bring it up til now. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”

“No, it’s alright, we’ll start small.” Zuko leaned forward, an inspired gleam in his eyes. This was the most animated Sokka had seen him in ages. “It’s just been raining--we can go outside and you can try creating ripples in puddles or something. See--” and he flipped to a page in the journal filled with drawings of the moon in various phases, “--waterbenders learned from the moon, back in the day. So making waves is one of the most intuitive parts of bending.”

Katara seemed lost in thought, her eyes shiny and distant.

“I have all the notes right here, Katara,” Zuko pressed, “There are entire lessons and sequences written out. And I have some knowledge of firebending forms, too, plus you’re clearly a very powerful bender--you’ll learn quickly.”

Aang had laid a protective hand on Katara’s arm. “Zuko, I don’t know if that’s the best--”

“Aang, I can handle myself,” Katara snapped suddenly, jerking her arm away from him. “Will my learning waterbending help us against the firebenders?”

Zuko blinked. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Brilliant.” Katara took a deep breath. “Then I want to learn.” Her eyes were hard and determined. “They’re going to pay for what they did to my mum.”

***

Sokka and Aang sat on the sagging back porch, watching Zuko and Katara stand around a large puddle that had collected a few metres away in the roots of a large, gnarled tree. Katara’s face was twisted in concentration as Zuko dictated to her from the journal.

“I know it's midday now, but the moon is still out--it’s halfway waned, now. Imagine it in front of you and feel the tug in your core.” He paused and watched Katara’s squinted eyes, then continued more gently, “The power is there, Katara. Just relax and let it flow through you.”

Katara took several deep breaths, forcing her face back to a semblance of neutrality. “Right. Easy stuff.”

Sokka couldn’t tell if anything was happening, but Zuko had suddenly let out a loud whoop. “Yes, Katara! That’s it! You made waves!”

“I did?” Katara’s eyes opened wide and she peered down into the puddle. Her face fell slightly. “Well, it looks quite still, now.”

“No, you did it!” Zuko insisted excitedly. “Let’s try it again.”

Sokka was quickly losing interest. That day was one of the few that hadn’t been filled with endless amounts of rain--though the clouds looming in the distance made it clear that the relatively nice weather was not long for this world. He was itching to get out and explore the grounds a bit. Aang was sitting quietly next to him, arms wrapped around his knees as he watched Katara and Sokka.

“D’you know when you’re in traffic and there’s that split-second moment when one light has gone red but the other isn’t green yet? Like that feeling of anticipation?” Sokka broke the silence, picking at a splinter in the deck.

A sharp wind blew through the yard. “I guess,” Aang replied, “Why?”

“That’s what right now feels like. This whole mansion situation. Get what I mean?”

Aang’s mouth twisted into a small frown. “Yeah. I get what you mean.” In the distance, thunder growled. “I wanna get out and do something. Not just watch Katara and Zuko do stuff.” There was an edge of bitterness to his voice as he watched Katara let out a shriek of excitement when she managed to make a small ball of water hover above the puddle.

Was Aang jealous? Sokka turned fully to look at the younger man, whose grey eyes were dark and stormy. He was definitely jealous. Sokka didn’t quite know how to process this new information. There was zero romantic energy between Katara and Zuko--Katara seemed barely tolerant of Zuko even on the best of days.

Aang watched a few small leaves skitter their way across the cracked paving stones. ‘I’m not jealous of Katara and Zuko, Sokka. I’m not that daft. I just wish I--had something.” He paused. “The way you and Katara have each other. Or how Katara has her bending. The way Zuko has you, and the memory of his uncle pushing him forward. I just--I’m an orphan, Sokka. I don’t know who I am.”

Sokka shelved the comment about him and Zuko away to be processed later. “Aang, don’t be an idiot. You and Katara have each other. You have me. You’re basically the centre of this whole group, mate, you’re holding us together.” Sokka couldn’t exactly place when Aang had started withdrawing from the group a bit. Guiltily, he realized he’d been so wrapped up in thinking about Zuko and worrying about Katara that Aang had rarely crossed his mind.

Aang let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s not what I mean! I mean--having a purpose, something to ground me and keep me moving. I just feel like there’s a part of me that’s missing. Something’s throwing me off.” The bank of clouds had moved almost directly over the derelict mansion, shrouding the grounds in a hazy greyness.

Sokka snorted. “You’re acting as if the rest of us have any clue what we’re doing. We are all quite literally making it up as we go along--how do you think it was so easy for everyone to drop everything for this mess of a trip? You’re nineteen, Aang! You don’t need to have this shit figured out yet. No one ever really does.” Sokka was half-trying to convince himself as he reassured Aang.

“I guess.” Aang pressed his palms against his eyelids. A few fat drops of rain fell next to the pair. He stood up and faced Zuko and Katara. “We should probably pack it in.”

Katara frowned in disappointment. “But I’ve nearly got this last one!” Her hands were splayed out in front of her, hovering over the puddle. “See?” A stream of water ran shakily out of the puddle, bits of twig and mud dripping out as it formed a circle around her and Zuko. Her hands were shaking with the effort, and her forehead was shiny with sweat. The water dropped suddenly with a splash onto the patchy grass, sending drops of muddy liquid across the yard.

Zuko wiped a streak of dirt off his forehead. “I think that’s probably enough for today.” He snapped the journal shut and walked between Sokka and Aang into the house. Katara still stood by the puddle, looking very small and lost with mud splattered on her boots and jeans, hair sticking up in all directions above her ponytail.

“What’s his problem?” Katara muttered to no one in particular, kicking a nearby root. She and Aang both turned in unison to look expectantly at Sokka.

“Why do I have to go deal with the toddler?” Sokka complained, throwing up his hands and rising to his feet. “It’s certainly not my fault he’s such a drama queen.” Grumbling, he made his way inside to where Zuko sat in the kitchen, the one room in the mansion that was in half-decent shape. Still, Sokka had to navigate past cracked tile and gaping cabinets on his way to the patch of counter Zuko was perched on.

They stood silently. Sokka had spent enough time with Zuko to know that if the quiet stretched out long enough, Zuko would just start talking to fill the space.

“So Katara is doing quite well,” Zuko offered suddenly, true to form. “You’ve got a well powerful sister, you know.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t just storm out on her like a … jilted lover, or something!” Sokka said incredulously, flushing at Zuko's raised eyebrow. “What gives?” He leaned against the counter opposite Zuko, leaving a metre or so of space between them. He tried to justify this version of Zuko with the soft, sleepy Zuko that’d had Sokka wrapped up in his arms just that morning and found it very difficult. This Zuko was all spikes and hard edges.

“We’re just wasting time here,” Zuko said quietly. “You and I both know it. I think we all know it.” In a roundabout sort of way, he was making the same points Sokka and Aang had talked about earlier. “The longer we stay here, the more likely it is that the firebenders find us.”

Sokka made a frustrated noise. “But what are we doing here, Zuko? What’s the end game? We went to the party, made a great cock-up of it … now what? We didn’t even get any good information!”

Zuko shook his head. “No, we got information. Just enough information to keep us going--they were talking about Zhao.”

“... d’you know him?”

Zuko laughed grimly. “Oh, yeah. I know him. Power-hungry bastard. He’s definitely the one that ordered the burning down of my hotel.”

“But why?” Sokka felt distinctly that he was missing a few key facts that would clear up this whole confusing mess. He felt like he was floundering in the dark while Zuko stood next to him with two pairs of night vision goggles, refusing to share.

“I think a better question would be why not,” Zuko replied, a touch evasively. “Why wouldn’t one of the firebender kingpins want to take out the heart of the resistance force?”

“Right. Yeah. Makes sense.” Sokka stared into the middle distance, picking at a loose thread in his overly large jumper. “Don’t see why you couldn’t have just mentioned that. We’re a bit of a team, you know.” And cuddle buddies, apparently.

Zuko looked very pained. “Right. I’m--sorry. I guess I’ve been preoccupied. It wasn’t fair of me. I’m just--”

He was cut off by Aang shoving his way into the kitchen from the porch. For a moment the three stood there, the moment frozen, Aang’s breath crystallizing in the air. “All right?” Sokka said by way of greeting, doing his best to jog Aang into speaking up.

“Police,” Aang gasped, “police, the mansion over. We can hear their cars and voices.” He ran through the room, presumably going to the parlour to pack up all their things.

They unfroze. Zuko sighed sharply. “Excellent. That’s just what we need. As if we have some other hideout planned. Bloody hell, this is a fucking mess we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

Sokka blinked. That was probably the most he’d ever heard Zuko swear. “Bloody hell, indeed,” he agreed, deciding not to comment on it. “Shall we run upstairs and grab some more journals?” At Zuko’s nodded assent, Sokka led the way to the stairs that ran up from the kitchen to the servants’ quarters upstairs. It was a tight fit, but more direct than the massive sweeping staircase in the front entrance. He tried not to think of the century’s worth of dust and grime now sinking into his lungs and pores as he and Zuko pounded up the steps.

Zuko found a very old, very nasty leather book bag in the corner of the study, and he and Sokka spent a precious few minutes carefully loading it full of journals and papers. They didn’t speak, wordlessly passing books and packing the bag full. When they finished, the pair ran down the main staircase as fast as they dared to where Katara and Aang were stood with everyone’s bags.

“Do we even know where to go?” Zuko asked no one in particular. There was no response. He sighed roughly. “I have an idea, since none of you geniuses apparently came up with a plan B. It’s a fair hike, though, I should warn you all.”

Aang bounced from foot to foot. “That’s fine, whatever, let’s just go.”

The group left through the front door but swung a right towards the overgrown shrubbery that bordered one side of the front yard. Sokka had found a sizable gap in the branches during one of his wanders around the grounds, and had marked it in his mind as a solid place to make a getaway should one be needed.

Zuko was in front and didn’t lead the group towards the gap, rather, he had them walk along the shrubbery til they were near the edge of the property line. They were all four silent as they trudged through the icy mud, too busy trying not to slip and fall to question Zuko’s plan.

Katara, Sokka realized belatedly, was clad in only a thin henley and corduroys, and she wrapped her arms around herself as they walked. Aang, in contrast, looked quite comfortable in his t-shirt and trousers, as did Zuko. Two strange men. Not that Sokka was really any more normal.

“There’s an old cellar back here. Detached from the outbuildings. Think the building over it got knocked down ’n they didn’t bother with filling it in,” Zuko explained as a pile of mossy rocks came into view. Sokka enjoyed how it seemed that the longer Zuko stayed with them, the more his posh little accent faded. “Bloody fuck,” Zuko swore as he tripped over a large stone, punctuating Sokka’s point nicely. He grinned into his scarf.

The cellar was dingy and damp, much as the mansion had been, but with an extra layer of gross from the mud and moss that seemed to be gathered in every crevice. It was barely large enough to fit the four of them, packed in as they were like so many sardines. Aang’s pointy elbows were jammed into Sokka’s ribcage, and Sokka could feel the crown of his head pushing against Zuko’s chin. Katara had managed to tuck herself into the furthest corner, arms wrapped around her knees.

None of them spoke once they were settled. Sokka didn’t know how long they would end up staying there in their little cave, listening to the sounds of shouts and doors slamming as the police made their way through the mansion and around the grounds. It was obvious that they had been living there, there was no way to hide that--crisps packets littered the kitchen, and the blankets in the parlour were enough of a giveaway on their own. Sokka couldn’t think why Zuko had had them hide on the grounds instead of booking it into the city centre.

They gradually shifted into more comfortable positions--amid grunts of pain from Sokka and Zuko both, Aang shoved his way over to Katara and crouched down, stretching out his lanky limbs in a way that forced Sokka and Zuko to cling to each other for dear life, Sokka gripping a rotting wooden beam above them like a desperate commuter on the Tube. Then Zuko shifted so he was leaning against the wall, pulling Sokka to rest next to him, face mashed into the taller man’s shoulder. Sokka would normally have the grace to be embarrassed, but in the damp chill of the cellar he was grateful for Zuko’s proximity--Zuko always seemed to run a few degrees warmer than everyone else.

Minutes, then hours went by. None of them dared to peek out from the hole and see if the police were still there. Zuko had been right, Sokka grudgingly had to admit, in having them hide in the crumbling cellar. When the police approached the outbuildings--so close to their hiding spot that dirt waterfalled through the opening--they didn’t bother checking the cellar at all. The police--probably with a few firebenders--weren’t really looking for people hiding on the property; they probably assumed they all had melted into the surrounding city.

Sokka watched the tiny patch of sunlight on the floor go from a milky yellow, to a soft golden, then finally a hazy red glow. Sunset. Katara had fallen asleep against Aang’s shoulder, who had twisted uncomfortably to allow her the space. Zuko’s arm was still wrapped firmly around Sokka’s shoulders, fingertips burning where they pressed into Sokka’s sweater. Time was endless, liquid. Sokka dropped his head to rest against where Zuko’s collarbones poked through his shirt, feeling Zuko’s embrace shift to accommodate him.

It had been silent for another hour before Sokka decided that he’d had enough. His stomach felt pinched with hunger and his feet ached from standing for so long and, really, after several hours in a damp cellar he would honestly take getting arrested if it meant getting some proper heat. He voiced as much to the group and they all murmured assent save for Zuko.

At Sokka’s questioning look, Zuko sighed, his breath ruffling Sokka’s eyelashes. “They’ve probably posted a watch. Since there was recent evidence of us being there. It’s not safe to go back inside. Or outside, for that matter.”

“Do you suggest we just stay here all night?” Sokka asked incredulously. He stamped his feet to try to bring some life to them, pulling away from Zuko and almost immediately feeling the absence of his warmth.

Zuko's silence was answer enough.

“Great,” Sokka said derisively. “Brilliant. All night in a damp fucking hole in the ground because there might be a police officer napping in the front gardens. Excellent. You lot can all stay here, but I’m out.” He moved towards the way out, preparing to crawl back out and into one of the nearby outbuildings.

“No.” Zuko grabbed Sokka’s shoulder and tugged him back. “Are you so selfish that you’ll risk all of our lives just because you’re uncomfortable?” There was an unmistakably angry edge to his words, to which Sokka bristled.

“Guys--” Aang said warningly, but Sokka ignored him.

“Yeah, I guess I am! Sokka the selfish arsehole, right here for you!” Sokka knocked Zuko’s hand away from his shoulder. “Maybe you should take a moment to consider how much I’ve given up for you, yeah? Dropped everything to follow you on your quest for vengeance, didn’t I?” He wiped a hand across his face. “Living in a ruin of a mansion, firebenders after me for the rest of my life, probably, all because your uncle died and I felt sorry for you! I wish I’d never talked to you at the pub all those ages ago! Could be relaxing at home with a cuppa right now, couldn’t I? But no,” Sokka ignored Katara’s insistent tugs on his arm to lay off, “No, I’m sitting in this damp cellar. With you. My sister. Her boyfriend--and they all dropped everything, too, you know.” He finished his rant with a final accusatory glare, then took a deep breath and fell silent.

The air in the cellar was heavy and oppressive, even more so than before. Zuko’s eyes were bright and shiny, and his hands shook at his sides. He was radiating heat. “I didn’t force you into this,” he choked out through gritted teeth. “I didn’t force--any of you into this.” He gestured to Aang and Katara, who leaned forward.

“We know, Zuko, we wanted to do this. We wanted to help you,” Katara said desperately. “Can’t you both calm down? This is--this is just the stress talking.” She looked between Sokka and Zuko in a panic. “Just wait till we’ve had some food and then--we can reevaluate.”

Zuko kept his eyes trained on Sokka. “I’m sorry for assuming I meant something to you,” he said flatly, a splotch of red forming on his scarless cheek. He sat down suddenly, roughly, knocking Sokka back against the opposite packed dirt wall.

Sokka felt everything slowly slipping away from him--Zuko, Katara, the whole “mission” they were operating. They were just kids, weren’t they? He watched Aang and Katara whisper urgently to each other, Katara’s eyes bright with tears, and felt an aching pit of regret sink into his stomach. Where could they even go from here?

Sokka sat down as best he could, tucking his shoes to the right of Zuko’s boots. In the dim light, he listened to Zuko’s harsh breathing and watched his shoulders shake. The cellar was cold. He watched, as the hours moved by, Katara’s breath slowing as she nodded off on Aang’s shoulder. Then Aang, too, fell asleep and it was just Sokka and Zuko sitting in silence. The chill had intensified as night settled around them, but Sokka did his best not to show any sign of being uncomfortable.

Zuko raised his head slightly, eyes red-rimmed and the skin around them raw. Sokka pointedly kept his eyes trained on the wooden beams, jaw set. “You do … mean something to me,” Sokka said quietly, still not making eye contact with Zuko. Silence settled around them again. Zuko sniffled loudly like he was purposely trying to make Sokka feel like the absolute worst human alive.

“Are you going to make me spell it out?” Sokka said, forcing himself to look back down at Zuko, who was watching him steadily. “You mean a lot to me. I’m … sorry.” So much for being stoic and sticking to his guns. Sokka tried not to make it seem too much like he was waiting with bated breath for Zuko’s reply.

“Good to know,” was all Zuko had to say in response, his voice rough. Sokka did his best to refrain from rolling his eyes, and shifted his feet so their shoes were pressed together.

“I mean it. I was being an idiot.”

“I got it,” Zuko said quietly. “Don’t hurt yourself.” One corner of his mouth quirked upwards, and he knocked his knee against Sokka’s. Sokka knew he wasn’t quite forgiven, but he was pretty sure that he was closer than before.

Sokka ran through a few things in his head, weighing the pros and cons. Then he stood up abruptly, startling Zuko so that his head knocked against the dirt wall. “Sorry,” Sokka muttered, cheeks burning as he moved a few steps across the cellar to squeeze next to Zuko. As long as he did it quickly, he didn’t have to think about it too much.

Zuko was frozen and still next to him, barely breathing--which Sokka could tell because any semblance of a personal bubble was long gone. Zuko was tucked up in a position similar to Katara’s, with his arms wrapped around his knees and pressed to his chest. Sokka tried very hard not to look at the damp patch where Zuko had been leaning his head, and then when he did, tried his best not to continue to feel like the worst person alive. Bully the orphan, Sokka, that was a grand idea.

“Is this cool?” Sokka asked.

“Yeah,” Zuko replied, and then they sat in silence. Sokka had a better view of the entrance from here, and he could watch the tiny clouds drift by against the few stars that were determinedly shining through the endless amounts of London light pollution. Adjacent to them, Aang let out a great snore, startling Sokka so that his elbow flew into Zuko’s side.

“Jesus Christ,” Zuko wheezed, clutching his side.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Sokka said in a panic. Aang wheezed loudly again, this time sending Zuko and Sokka into a fit of giggles. They resettled, and this time Zuko stretched his legs out against Sokka’s, leaning on the wall with his head just barely hovering over Sokka’s shoulder. The tension in the air had softened slightly.

It must have been after midnight. “We should sleep,” Sokka said uncertainly, conscious of the way Zuko was still tense against him.

“Probably,” Zuko agreed, then yawned widely as if to punctuate his words. Sokka snickered, to which Zuko responded by shoving his shoulder against his. Then they were both quiet again, and Zuko leaned his head properly on Sokka’s shoulder. Sokka paused for half a second then leaned his head to rest against Zuko’s. They still had Zhao to find--and some feelings to work through--but for that moment Sokka felt more peaceful than he had since they’d left. Zuko settled more comfortably against him, and Aang continued to snore while Katara slept blissfully through it, and despite everything, Sokka felt like he was home.