Quiet

The Blue Flame

He is the blue flame, perfect and dispassionate, showing no hint of emotion in either countenance or body -- until the door shuts behind him, and he is alone in his quarters. Then he springs into action.

The probability that he might have to leave the Fire Nation at a moment's notice has hung like a sword suspended over his head since he returned from the failed siege to find his brother installed in power and his sister-in-law disappeared from the palace; though he neither fought nor questioned too hard either happening, a displaced prince has little home in the kingdom that once was to be his. He looks about the room, gauging that he has now fewer than ten minutes. Nothing that can bought, then, he resolves in the face of the time limit -- only things that cannot be replaced.

The rolled-up portrait and letter of Lu Ten that occupies the shrine in the corner comes first, without question. He rolls it tight and winds a ribbon around it, then tucks it into the sleeve of his robe. Three scrolls of philosophy from his shelf, originals given to him by dear friends now long-lost to him. His set of ivory pai sho tiles, taking care that not one but two white lotus tiles are numbered among them. A small lacquered box containing a delicate gold hairpin he'd given as a courting gift. A pair of short blades, both dull with disuse and heavy with dust. A circular black stone small enough to fit in the circle of his thumb and forefinger, warm to the touch and river-washed perfectly smooth. His favourite fuzzy bath slippers.

At last, he reaches under the bed and pulls out the bag that has nestled there, tucked in preparation for a day like this, since the hour of his return to the palace. It is small, a simple day pack, and he unrolls it atop his bed. Within it he places his collected valuables, not even bothering to spend the time checking the two items already secreted inside -- one, an antique, heat-damaged crown wrapped in a soft grey cloth; the other, a portrait no larger than his palm of a woman with a sad face and long, dark hair.

Those things taken, the room -- indeed, the entire Fire Nation -- has little more to offer him. He fastens the bag with two swift knots, then heaves it gently over its shoulder and becomes the blue flame again, stepping out into a hallway lined with guards and filled with a bustling court. They all fall silent as he approaches, and he looks at none of them, but marches straight through, and they part to let him pass.

He supposes there is no real surprise to be had when he sees upon his approach the tall figure looming at the docks, the sea-wind blowing his robes and hair, watching from afar as a company of nurses and attendants carries a stretcher onto a boat that looks old enough to have been part of Fire Lord Sozin's original fleet. He keeps his own eyes fixed neither on the man nor on the stretcher, but on the ship, a neutral ground that does not dredge up any feelings in him save slight resignation; those derelicts are not known for their creature comforts.

As he passes, he hears Ozai laugh, a sharp, short bark of geniune surprise at finding his brother here at this hour with bag in hand. "Where are you going?"

Iroh keep his gaze foward and wills the tremble of anger from his voice. "With him."

The silence he hears following him is tellingly murderous. "You can't come back, you know," Ozai calls, his slithering, soft voice now loud enough to be heard over the roar of the waves and the cry of the gulls. The air still holds the day's warmth, the red glow of sunset still lingering at the edge of the black night. "You'll be banished with him, for as long as he is."

The difference between fire and lightning is that the latter does not consume its maker. One cannot, after all, create the blue flame; one can only carve out the space where it should be, then stand back and wait as inevitability rushes in to fill the gap. Half his world on his shoulders, the other half already being borne silently into the vessel, he walks ahead with steady step and never looks back.

Shore

Near sunset on the eleventh day, Bato heard on the wind the heavy roar of the ocean, and he nearly fell to his knees and wept with sheer relief. He forced himself forward, past exhaustion, with all the obstinance of a Water Tribe warrior. Even if the beach was empty -- if, by some tragedy of timing, they had gone on without him again -- he could sleep at the edge of the surf, letting Mother Ocean rock her lost pup.

Before leaving the compound, he'd allowed the sisters to salve his wounds one last time, applying ointment over-generously before wrapping his still-tender flesh tightly. It had worked as best as it could to keep moisture in, but already he could feel the damaged skin beginning to dry and crack beneath the bandages. They'd given him a jar of the salve to take with him, and he'd tried applying some to his forearm, but had made such a mess of re-binding himself that he'd resolved just to leave things until he had assistance. That had been nearly a week ago; in that time, he'd found no other traveller or settlement on his path.

The road rose over a high pass, and he followed it dilligently. From the top, he could see first the ocean itself, painted red-gold by the setting sun -- and then, as beautiful a sight as he'd ever encountered, a dozen sturdy boats moored near the rocky shoals and a circle of tents surrounding a bonfire on the sand. Willing himself to proceed slowly, lest he fall, he made his way down the shifting dunes to the flat of the beach.

The first to see him was Qilaq, who sat high on the prow of the farthest ship, keeping watch and mending his bow. "...Bato?" he called from his perch. "Is it you?"

Bato did not trust his voice, disused for several days, to carry over the roar of the surf; he merely raised a hand in greeting and kept at his approach. Qilaq laughed loudly, turning to the camp. "Ho, men! Look who's blown in on the wind!"

By now he was close enough to see clearly enough the door to the largest tent's being whipped open, revealing a familiar silhouette which paused only a second before rushing toward him across the beach. With that, Bato felt all the strength drain from him, and he let his bag drop to the sand with a heavy thud.

He tried not to pitch forward too forcefully as strong arms wrapped themselves none-too-gingerly around his injured frame, but Hakoda held him fast as though he weighed no more than a child. He was dimly aware of a growing bustle from the camp, the collected noise of welcome from the other warriors, but even that seemed still distant. Strong hands knotted at the back of his tunic and in his hair, and he let his forehead bend low into the crook of Hakoda's bare shoulder, embracing him with all the strength his journey had left him; tears welled in his eyes and spilt down his cheeks, salty, like the sea.

"I'm home," he whispered into the harbour of Hakoda's soft, dark hair.

Stargazing

Bato hadn't really expected to find anyone else awake at this late hour, and as such was surprised when he heard a soft set of footsteps creep up the steps to the deck. "Hi," she announced softly, as though she were afraid of accidentally startling him.

"Good evening, Katara," he said, turning to favour her with a smile. "You're up late."

The night wind blew chill across the deck, and Katara pulled her Royal Fire Navy cloak tight about her shoulders. "So are you." She settled herself on the box next to his, tucking her legs under her, close enough for company without being close enough to touch.

"I suppose I am." Bato smiled, pulling at his topknot; it was a horribly uncomfortable style, and even though his sleek hair was arguably better-suited to the twist than were the coarser locks of his compatriots, it didn't mean he liked it any better than they did . "I couldn't sleep and didn't want to keep your father up."

At the mention of her father, Katara's face darkened, and she turned so he couldn't see her expression any longer. Katara had always been like that -- open and friendly on the outside, but with dark places you just couldn't get to. For all that she took after her mother, she'd gotten that straight from Hakoda. "Guess he needs his rest."

Bato pulled at his hair again, finally giving up and letting it fall loose about his shoulders; if they ran into any other Fire Navy boats at this time of night, he'd grab one of those ridiculous helmets and hope for the best. Really, though, if they ran into any other Fire Navy boats at this time of night, they'd have more serious problems than his hairstyle. "How's Aang?" he asked, changing the subject.

"All right." Her hands worried at the edge of her cloak, working the hem of the heavy fabric to fraying. "I mean, the same, which I guess is better than being worse. But worse than being better." She drew her knees to her chest, staring out at the sea, and he wondered how the ocean must feel to her, with all its vastness and wild power just beyond her fingertips. "I just ... wanted to come up and get a little fresh air, that's all."

"Well, it's a nice night for it." Bato leaned back against the crate behind him, looking up at the stars. "The Serpent is bright tonight," he added, pointing to a long line of bright stars that curled at the end like a tail.

Katara's gaze followed his, and she cracked a small, honest smile. "I remember the one you used to sing about the Serpent and the Water Spirit," she said, pointing to a V-shaped cluster of stars to the northeast that to the very imaginative might appear to be a man's upraised arms. "Even if Gran-Gran did have to tell me you made up the verse about stealing the Serpent's underwear and using it for a sail."

"Alas, you know all my secrets now," he winked, stretching his arms behind his head. He was quiet for a long moment, listening to the lapping of the water against the side of the boat and the unfamiliar grind of coal engines, before starting, softly, "For shame, said the Spirit, all our plans are at an end / unless the Serpent has something that can help us catch the wind...."

Katara, startled into a laugh that brightened Bato's soul just to hear, hesistated for a moment, then leaned close and rested her head against his chest, pressing her cheek just above his heart. He stroked her long, dark hair -- so much like her father's -- and sang to her until the regular rhythm of her breath told him that she'd fallen asleep, then simply held her there quietly as the stars turned and the great metal vessel sailed on through the night.

The Fire Lord's Wife

The blow came so quickly and landed with such precision that she would remember later hearing the crack of open palm against cheek several instants before feeling the blow or realising that he had struck her. The force sent her staggering back two full steps; she was mighty, to be sure, but he was also a man twice her size and more than twice her age, and she had never been struck like that before.

The guards around them came rushing forward, spears brandished, moving on instinct, but Azula held up one well-manicured hand to stop them, noticing that Zhao had made the same gesture as she at the same time, and the guards, well-trained as they were, halted their advance. "The Fire Lord's wife must know her place," he said, his voice low and gruff, meant only for her. It was a deep, pompous rumble that sounded like nothing so much as a bird puffing up its feathers to impress a mate -- nothing like her father's voice: egoless, emotionless, measured, cold.

She hesitated for only a moment, weighing every option, then drew in a halting breath as her widened eyes began to water. "Captain Zhao, I--"

"Your father has been too indulgent." He grabbed the hand she had lifted to still the guards, enveloping her slender fingers in his rough ones. His hands were overwarm, as one might expect any firebending master's to be; her fingers felt like ice in his grip. "I can, of course, understand his leniency -- after your brother's pathetic showing, which led rightly to his banishment, he allows you much greater freedom, to prove that you, at least, are not as weak as that coward. But I cannot imagine that gives you the freedom to be insolent to him, it most assuredly does not give you the freedom to talk back to me -- not now, and certainly not when I am your husband."

As he spoke, she kept her face a mask of contrition, eyes upraised, lower lip caught warily beteween her teeth. A single tear fell from the corner of her eye and roll down her injured cheek -- her left, like Zuko's, if she thought about it, and she thought often about it -- and she made no move to brush it away. "Please, sir," she said, choosing her words as though they were glass. "Forgive me. I spoke without thinking. It won't happen again."

Another man might not have been fooled by such a suspiciously quick change of heart, but Zhao's arrogance blinded him as effectively as a hood drawn over an ostrich-horse's head. Mollified, he released her hand from his grip and instead stroked her cheek, which was already beginning to swell red. "You're young," he smiled, "and there are remedies for youthful folly. Will you join me for a meal this evening, in my quarters?"

"I would be honoured, sir." She bowed to him as he departed and kept her face frozen long after, staring at nothing in particular, measuring each breath, feeling her pulse thrum in the side of her face, recalling intelligence reports, picturing charts in her head, plotting courses, calculating distances, and finally concluding the southernmost outpost could use a new commander at the Fire Lord's earliest convenience. Let Zhao think he'd won this round, then send him directly into the path of a banished prince and a blow of her own that he'd never see coming.

Steam Bath

The door opened, and Bato leaned into the cool draft that slipped in. "Where's Sokka?" he asked, eyes still shut against the heat from the stove.

"Aulan said he'd teach him how to carve out a canoe, and he thought that sounded like more fun than taking a steam with his old dad." Hakoda pulled the door closed tight behind him, hunkered down beneath the low ceiling. "No one else today?"

Bato shrugged. "Maybe they're all out carving canoes." The stove made the air in the small log room hot and dry, and words burned coming out of his throat. He pulled his hair away from his neck and uncrossed his long legs, careful not to lean against the overheated wooden walls. "Well, get on with it."

"You're so demanding." Hakoda crouched beside the roaring stove, swirling the ladle in the nearby bucket of water. He had already begun to sweat, and his naked body glistened in the light from the fire, smooth and muscular. He had been an attractive boy when they'd both been young, surely, but he'd only grown more handsome with years, and if his face had taken on a graveness with tragedy, well, it was becoming of a chief. He scooped the water from the bucket to the stove, and the room filled instantly with a hissing sound and white billows of smoke. "More?"

Bato shook his head. "I'm good," he said, breathing in the wet heat. He was warm enough already, and not particularly in the mood today to impress anyone with his capacity for endurance.

Hakoda nodded and put the ladle back into the bucket, then backed away from the stove to sit beside Bato. "You've been here a while," he said, running his fingertips over Bato's arm; his skin was mottled with the heat, a red lacey pattern, and Hakoda's hands looked dark by contrast.

"Waiting for you. It's a waste of water to steam alone." The contact was too hot in the already overheated environment, but Bato didn't pull away. "Besides, someone has to warm up the stove." He reached for Hakoda's hair, now free of its wolf-tail, drawing it away from Hakoda's face and neck. The twin beaded strands caught between his fingers, and he piled them atop Hakoda's head.

"How thoughtful," said Hakoda, letting his fingers wander from Bato's arm to his shoulder, then down his chest to the curve of his bare hip. His face was obscured by the heavy steam, but Bato knew the outline of his troublemaker's grin. "...Carving canoes, you said?"

"May I remind you that this is a public bath," said Bato, moving his body toward Hakoda's even as he spoke, "and that there are women and young children who will use this immediately after we do?"

Hakoda's fingers navigated a course to the soft interior of Bato's parted thighs. "Then it's a good thing we're planning to wash everything up as soon as we finish," he smirked, and Bato, who could never refuse his best friend anything under even the best of conditions, laughed into the wet air and lay back against the worn wood floor.

Homecoming

As though on cue, as the tall peaks of the Fire Nation had earlier that day begun to mar the flat line between sea and sky, a counterpoint of storm clouds had started to appear along the same western horizon. His skin crackled with the promise of lightning, a dry electric hum he'd felt since the previous nightfall.

"The military would have your back, you know," said Jeong Jeong from behind him, his gruff voice barely audible over the night wind as it ripped across the prow of the boat, fluttering their garments and tossing the waves against the heavy iron hull. "Every officer is loyal to you."

The salt spray landed against his skin, each droplet amplifying the lightning's siren song. Lightning's nature was to fill the void carved out for it; he felt as though he might be able to use the emptiness inside him to create a maelstrom to rival that into which their ship was sailing. "I would not wish civil war upon our nation." Jeong Jeong stepped closer and placed a comforting hand on Iroh's bare forearm, then withdrew it almost immediately; Iroh could feel the gentle burn linger in the place where they had made brief contact. "I have served with honour your late father, and would serve you with honour to the end of my life. But your brother has your late grandfather's madness in his blood, and I fear no civil war so much as I fear his ascendancy. There is still time before we make land, and our fleet numbers thirty, each vessel with a crew of--"

"No." Iroh's single word, though barely a whisper, brought them both to silence again. White lines of lighting threaded throughout the low-lying clouds, and as Iroh lifted his fingers from the metal bar of the ship's railing, he could see tiny trails of blue sparks in their wake. "I am moved by your concern, old friend, both for me and for the Fire Nation. In this dark time, your words have touched my heart."

Jeong Jeong's cold stare was nearly audible. "And yet you will not."

"I cannot," answered Iroh, staring out at the sea. "My family is--" His voice caught in his throat, and he patiently breathed the sea air in and out until the sentence's end had been cleared away. "I will not rip apart what little we have left of ourselves to demand a throne I never wanted."

"Then forgive me," spat Jeong Jeong, "but there are things as well which I cannot do." He turned, and the heavy tread of his boots across the deck receded into the night, until all Iroh could hear again was the wind and the sea. Alone again, he tightened his fists around the railing so hard his knuckles went white, straining his ears all the while for the first warning of distant thunder. Closing in on the horizon, gleaming with the docklamps against the coming storm, the Great Gates of Azulon towered like judgement.

The King of Bad Ideas

It had been five days, about ten hours, and surely a few minutes here and there since he'd told Jet he didn't want to see him anymore and stormed out of his tiny apartment into the night traffic. Not that Zuko was counting.

The worst part was that no matter how much of a hothead Jet could be, he also appeared possessed of a limitless supply of patience, as evidenced by how he'd spent nearly every working hour since hanging out around (or sometimes in, and that was worse) the tea shop. Zuko didn't talk to him, of course, didn't even interact with him more than to comply with the cup of tea or two he ordered daily, and how he was paying for those cups when he apparently didn't have a job except 'full-time stalker', Zuko didn't know.

It frankly made him mad. When you told people to fuck off, weren't they supposed to take it personally? Wasn't 'go away' one of those phrases that destroyed relationships? For not the first time, Zuko suspected Jet of selective deafness. How was he supposed to break it off -- for Jet's own good, no less -- if the idiot wouldn't even listen to reason?

He caught a glimpse of Jet's face in the window, casually loitering about the eaves, and began to shake with anger so badly that he nearly dropped an entire tea set; only reflex trained even deeper than emotion saved the whole mess from going front-first over the tray. "I'm taking a break," Zuko announced, a little louder than strictly necessary, and waved away all concerned looks from Uncle as he walked through the back of the shop to the door that led to the back alley, ostensibly to clear his head.

He wasn't really surprised when Jet was there, leaning against a stack of empty tea crates right by the door, and he wasn't really surprised either when he grabbed Jet's hair with strong fists and pulled their mouths together for a kiss that was more teeth than anything else. He could feel Jet laugh into the kiss, and it made him so angry that he just kissed harder, slamming Jet's body back up against the door to the tea house and hoping that Uncle would just think he was out here punching walls or something else completely unworthy of investigation. Jet grabbed hard to the sides of Zuko's hips, pulling their bodies together, and Zuko felt the hard-on he'd been fighting for those five days, ten hours, and change bump against a similar condition in Jet's pants Zuko could only hope had been plaguing him exactly as long.

Convinced that Jet wasn't going anywhere, at least for the minute, Zuko let go of his wild brown hair with one hand and brought it down to the place where their cocks rubbed together through fabric. "I missed this," smirked Jet into the kiss, and that just made Zuko angry again, furious at how stupid Jet could be to miss him when he'd been treated like this. In a fit approaching pique, Zuko withdrew that hand from their joined bodies, and snaked it instead beneath his own apron, through the joined material at the front of his coat, down his own pants, around his own cock, and to hell with Jet for being so stupid.

Of course, as most all of his plans tended to do, this one backfired spectacularly. "Looks like you missed it too," Jet teased as he kissed his way to Zuko's ear -- his bad ear, too, which made Zuko even angrier and harder in one confusing rush. "I missed the way you smell, the way you feel, how it feels when I'm inside you, fuck, I missed that the most." His voice was a careful, low murmur that Zuko felt as much as he heard, and if he missed a word or two, the meaning was dead clear. Shaking now, he became aware that he wasn't so much holding Jet in place anymore as holding himself up, and Jet's hands had landed steadying flat against his back. "I missed watching you come. I missed seeing your face when you do."

Zuko earnestly wanted to tell Jet just to shut the hell up, but he couldn't redirect enough attention from his cock to the portion of his brain that controlled words. He jerked himself faster now, leaning completely against Jet for support, his eyes shut tight and his lower lip caught between his teeth.

"I missed you so fucking much," Jet breathed against his skin, and now it wasn't a tease at all; now the complete idiot completely meant it. One of Jet's hands brushed up and down his back, comforting and overwhelming at once. "Come on, come for me, Li. Let me know you missed me too. Right here, come on."

No, thought Zuko, bound and determined not to obey Jet's orders anymore, much less give him any indication that their time apart might have been hard on Zuko too. Unfortunately, Zuko's body was a traitor not only to the entire Fire Nation, but to his own attempts at good sense as well, and he came hard into his own hand, burying his mouth against the bare skin of Jet's tanned neck as he did. The smell of Jet's skin, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his arms - he had missed it, more than he'd ever missed any comfort of home, because it filled a need more irreplaceable that material things. You could always get another bed, another set of clothes, another name, another city, another life, but there was only one Jet.

He'd barely recovered his senses and withdrawn his hand from his clothes when he slipped through Jet's grip and sank to his knees. Jet, that complete idiot, looked neither surprised nor reluctant at this gesture; he only smiled and wove his fingers through Zuko's short hair. Zuko's fingers unfastened Jet's pants with great speed and deliberateness, and nearly as soon as Jet's cock had slipped out from between folds of fabric, dripping and hard and just waiting for this, Zuko had swallowed him to the root.

For someone capable of making such noise and trouble, Jet could also operate with great stealth, and now, even as Zuko sucked him fast and hard, Jet didn't make a sound. While this trick had impressed Zuko in the past, it just infuriated him now, and he redoubled his efforts, bobbing his mouth up and down on Jet's cock with such intensity that he was certain he looked at least slightly stupid, but couldn't really bring himself to care. He slid his fingers in through the remaining gap in Jet's pants, taking Jet's balls in his fingertips and pressing at the soft skin behind them until Jet made a small gasping noise, which Zuko counted as a definite victory for himself. He may have been a complete virgin until very, very recent memory, but he wouldn't have gotten very far in life without being a quick study.

Despite how much he wanted to make this last, the realities of their relatively public location couldn't be ignored for too long, and his break couldn't go on much longer without meriting at least some investigation. Fortunately, Jet appared to have a grasp of the situation as well, and just as Zuko was about to let him go and tell him to hurry up, Jet's fingers tightened in his hair and pushed him deep. Zuko opened wide and let him in, let Jet come in his mouth and swallowed him clean. To hell with Jet for being right, to hell with him for everything, to hell with him for slipping in under Zuko's skin and becoming someone he couldn't do without. And to hell with him extra, Zuko thought, wiping his mouth clean on the corner of his apron as he tucked Jet back into his pants, for making Zuko like it.

Jet pulled him back to his feet and into a kiss all in one move, sticking his tongue deep into Zuko's mouth. "I like tasting myself on you," he grinned, nipping at Zuko's lips.

Now that both anger and arousal had been placated -- at least for the time being -- Zuko felt drained, and he let Jet gather him close. The blood that had so recently occupied his cock flooded back up to his face, pinkening his cheeks. "I should get back."

"Yeah, you probably should." Jet reached down and grabbed Zuko's ass, and Zuko made an exaggerated frown, and Jet laughed, and in that instant the world was almost perfect. "Come over tonight."

Zuko took a deep breath. "You should-- It's still not a good idea. To be with me."

And Jet, the complete indispensible idiot, just laughed again. "I'm the king of bad ideas," he winked, and he gave Zuko one last deep kiss before letting him go and setting off casually down the alleyway, looking absolutely composed. "Don't stand me up, or I'll just come find you again."

The hell of it was, that was the best news Zuko had heard all day.

Sokka's List Of Reasons Jet Sucks

"Nice night, huh?" said Jet from out of nowhere, and by the time Sokka recovered from having been startled so badly he nearly pitched headlong off the wooden platform, he had added moves around too quietly and sneaky-like as #63 on his mental List Of Reasons Jet Sucks.

"It's all right," grumped Sokka, who had decided earlier that a productive vent for his general irritation with the situation at hand would be to sharpen his boomerang. By now, the edge looked fine enough to split a hair.

Without prompting, Jet fell into a sitting position right next to Sokka, his feet dangling over the edge, close enough that their hips pressed against one another; Sokka would have considered making #64 just barges in uninvited, except it was already #29. Instead, he scooted an inch away. Jet grinned, that damn stalk of grass tucked in the corner of his mouth. "You excited about the mission tomorrow?"

"Am I supposed to be?" Sokka scraped the dwindling waterstone across the blade, enjoying the harsh grinding sound it made. With any luck, the sound would be so annoying it would make Jet go away. "You haven't even told me what we're doing!"

"What," Jet leaned in closer, "you don't trust me?"

Sokka exhaled between pursed lips. "You know what? No. I don't." He pulled his feet back up to the landing and stood, stuffing his boomerang in its sheath across his back and jamming the nearly dry whetstone into his pocket. "But I'll go through with this because Aang and Katara think it's the right thing to do, and because I hate the Fire Nation as much as you do."

Jet laughed in that cocky way he had, which had made the list early at #4. "You know? I don't doubt that." With a light spring, Jet was on his feet as well, one hand perched against the nearby trunk and leaning forward in a way that was definitely not sufficiently respectful of Sokka's personal space. At this distance (or lack thereof), Jet smelled like sweat and earth and metal, and it was a masculine scent that Sokka became instantly jealous of Jet's having. "They killed my dads, you know," he said, his voice dropping so low that Sokka found himself leaning in to make sure he didn't miss a word. "Right in front of me. Stabbed Pop with a dozen different swords and burned him down inside our house. Cut Dad's head clean off, while he was trying to run away with me."

"That's...." Sokka swallowed back a pang of sympathy that threatened to bubble up from his otherwise manly and impregnable heart. "I'm sorry, Jet." Against all his better judgment, he reached out and placed a hand on Jet's right shoulder, just beneath his arm guard.

"That's why I want to hit them back." A crazy little note trembled at the edge of Jet's words, one Sokka might have hated had he not heard it in his own voice before, when he spoke of how the Fire Nation had killed his mother. "I want to make sure what happened to you and me never happens to anyone else. You understand, don't you?" Jet took a step forward, and Sokka took one back in kind, except there was suddenly another thick tree trunk behind him, preventing further retreat.

And then Jet's hands were flat against that tree on either side of Sokka's head, and Sokka's fight-or-flight response had unhelpfully stalled out somewhere between the two, leaving him in a suspended, stunned state as Jet brought their bodies flat against one another. His teeth bared, Jet threaded a knee between Sokka's thighs. "Woah!" yelped Sokka, startled out of his stupor. "Bad touch!" He tried to push Jet away, but Jet had all the leverage, all the control, and Sokka was the meat in an unexpected Jet-and-tree sandwich. If you'd asked him that morning to name all the things he probably would not be doing at the day's end, this might have made the top ten.

Jet, on the other hand, seemed unbothered by the sudden change in proximity. "I can tell you understand," he said, bringing his mouth close to Sokka's ear, so close that Sokka could feel the brush of Jet's lips as they formed consonants. The heat and pressure involved set off a lot of alarms throughout Sokka's body, and the worst part was that they weren't all bad. "That's why I need you, Sokka. You're the smart one. I can count on you because you know why this is so important." If he'd been thinking just a little clearer, Sokka was certain, the List Of Reasons Jet Sucks would now be working its way well into the low eighties, and that was even with earlier additions to the list like too charming to be trusted and doesn't ever quite look you in the eye and keeps having a conversation after you're pretty sure he's stopped listening to you.

"Fine." Sokka finally managed to lift his hands to Jet's chest, though he stopped short of actually being able to push Jet away. "I get it, I get it, big mission tomorrow, woo-hoo," he said, trying simultaneously to sound bored and not to lean his hips into Jet's thick, powerful thigh. "But I'm still not doing this for you."

Like someone's striking a spark into a box of gunpowder, Jet's face lit up with a grin. "That's the spirit, Sokka," he said, patting Sokka's shoulder and stepping back as though this kind of casual contact happened every day, even when other people were watching, and boy, did Sokka's train of thought ever not want to pursue that particular avenue of contemplation. For making him think that, Jet deserved a whole other list. "I'll come get you first thing tomorrow morning!"

"That's ... great, Jet," Sokka said to Jet's retreating form, not even knowing if he was being heard anymore or if it even mattered if he was. "That's really super." He sighed and leaned back against the tree trunk, willing his body to relax muscles he hadn't even known he'd tensed. From his quick initial estimation of things, though, he might be there a while.

A New Dawn

Just as the sky began to pinken in the east, the first sign of day's breaking over far boundary of the city between the camp and the horizon, Iroh sat down atop the great wall, pressing his palms flat together. After a moment's concentration, he drew one warm palm away and pressed it to Jeong Jeong's shoulderblade. "How did you know?" smirked Jeong Jeong, who looked as though he might have been sitting there all night.

"Your arm is close to your body, as though it causes you pain," Iroh answered, willing the gentle heat seep into his old friend's joints. "It is not an unfamiliar gesture." Beneath his touch, he felt Jeong Jeong's muscles begin to relax. He was not trained in the therapeutic arts, but had seen enough Earth Kingdom masseurs placing hot rocks on stiff backs and sore shoulders to understand the principle behind it. "And also, Piandao told me I could find you here."

"Mm." Jeong Jeong's eyes remained shut against the dawn. "I trust he was pleased to see you again."

Iroh shifted his hand upward, toward the curve of Jeong Jeong's neck, pushing back his old friend's shock of wild white hair to get at the tanned skin beneath. He'd never felt so old as he did looking at the faces of men he remembered better young. "Oh, indeed. I gave him a nice new recipe for ginger tea, which should be ready soon." The first sunlight cracked over the great wall's far edge, and Iroh felt Jeong Jeong breathe in at the same time he did, reflexively, as though light were something that could fill one's lungs. "During my journey here, I thought of all the people I might meet again, and for all but three could I guess how, good or bad, my return would be received."

With another thoughtful hum, Jeong Jeong leaned back into Iroh's touch. "Your nephew being one of the enigmas, of course."

"Of course," answered Iroh. "I have my hopes, naturally, but if this were a game of chance, I would hesitate to bet on myself."

Jeong Jeong nodded. "Wise enough." The sun had risen more fully now, lighting the cloudless sky, and Iroh shut his own eyes against his glare. Everything looked different at this hour and this altitude, the kind of peace that seemed to come only at great distance. "And I trust I am the second."

Iroh found his voice suspended in his throat, and had to cough it free before he could speak again. "As I said, dear hopes and smart wagers are not often the same thing."

"It is nice to see that even at this advanced age, I have managed to retain some of my mystery." His voice was as gruff as it ever had been, but not harsh, and as he spoke the half-twist smile on his face broadened a telling fraction. "...And the third?"

A chill broke the flow of heat to his hands, and Iroh pulled back before Jeong Jeong could feel the loss. "She, like my nephew, remains to be seen."

Jeong Jeong nodded again, this time deeply, as though he were bowing to the dawn. "We should return and tell the ones who are waking up that you've returned."

"We should," agreed Iroh. The sun continued its slow arc upward toward midday, and neither man moved.

Princesses

"Did you have a good time playing with Princess Azula?" her mother asked as she sat at the side of Mai's bed. In the distance, two nursemaids hovered, their clothes and expressions severe, waiting until the mistress' departure to attend to their charge.

Mai nodded, because she sensed that was the answer she was supposed to give. In truth, she hadn't thought much either way of the entire experience; Azula had been bossy, but that made little difference to Mai, who was accustomed to amusing herself with whatever pastime her caretakers decided was appropriate. By Azula's insistence, they'd played at Sparks and Daggers, which Mai's parents disapproved of, and that quiet disobedience had heightened the experience somewhat.

Still, this entire thing was important to her mother -- Mai could read it in her dark eyes, could see it in the way she fawned all over the princess in a way she never doted on her own daughter -- even if Mai herself really didn't know why.

Her mother pulled the pins from Mai's hair, untangling the twin buns that sat on either side of her head. "And did you see that Prince Zuko was there was well?"

Mai nodded again, and this time it was an outright lie -- she hadn't noticed the prince at all. She turned her head to the side and let her mother unfasten the second bun, wrinkling her nose as the fine hairs fell into her face.

"He's a very handsome boy," her mother said, tugging at Mai's long hair as she twisted it free. Mai preferred when the servants did and undid her hair, because they were gentle and knew not to pull, and she never had to bite back her complaints or hide her winces as she did now. Her mother's long fingers caught in a tangle, and Mai willed herself silent even though she couldn't stop tears from stinging the corners of her eyes. "He looks so much like his father. I'm sure he'll make a lovely young man when he grows up."

There was an edge to her mother's voice Mai couldn't quite read, so she nodded, because it was the answer her mother liked the best. "I want you to be good friends with Princess Azula," said her mother, reaching for an eagle-tortoiseshell comb beside the bed; Mai steeled herself, but her mother only looked at its patterns in the light, and never approached Mai's head with it. "She would be a very good friend to have. And if you married a prince, that would make you a princess, too! And wouldn't that be lovely?"

Mai had thought secretly about growing up to become many different things before -- a bodyguard, an herbalist, a professional yangqin player -- but had never considered becoming a princess, and from what she'd seen of Princess Azula didn't think she'd be very good at it. But a strange sadness had drawn deep lines around her mother's mouth, so Mai dispelled it in the only way she knew how: "Yes, Mother."

"That's a good girl," her mother said, stroking Mai's cheek with her long, tapered fingers. "My beautiful baby girl."

To Friendship

The celebration was going well enough, right up to the moment when Piandao challenged Jeong Jeong to an agni kai.

Jeong Jeong stared at him dumbly, his senses dulled by the sheer volume of rice wine he'd managed to consume that evening, a celebratory theft from the Fire Lord's liquor cabinets on the occasion of having finished their final round of examinations that year at the Royal Fire Academy. "You can't firebend," he pointed out.

"I don't care!" Piandao stood above him, hands on his hips, in a pose that would have been downright fierce had he not swayed with the weight of his drunkenness. He was two years younger than either of his friends, something which they had never held against him, especially since his marks tended to be better than theirs anyway -- though his youth did nothing for his tolerance. "I'll ... think of something."

"You could bring your sword," Iroh pointed out. "I would even set it on fire for you. That is what kind of a friend I am." He had been setting fire to things on and off all that evening, in fact, and was now encouraging a single flame to hop back and forth among a trio of candles.

Jeong Jeong rolled his eyes. "If you set his sword on fire, I'd just put it out again."

Iroh shrugged up at Piandao. "He's got me there. Here, have a seat and we can toast to something we haven't toasted to yet."

Looking dejected but mostly resigned, Piandao slumped back to the floor, stretching out flat along the rich carpet of Iroh's room and placing his head in Jeong Jeong's lap. "We've toasted everything already," he sighed, playing idly with a long jade pendant that hung around Jeong Jeong's neck. "We've toasted love, and friendship, and the Fire Nation, and each of our healths, and the sun, and the wind, and every girl in our graduating class, and half the boys...."

"Then there's always the other half." Iroh poured another round of rice wine into tiny white cups and set them at the edges of the table where his friends could reach.

Jeong Jeong took both cups between his long fingers, balancing one on Piandao's chest; it rose and fell slowly with each breath. "What shall we toast?" he asked, smoothing down the loose strands of hair around Piandao's forehead.

Piandao shrugged as much as he could without disturbing the cup, a sullen little gesture that might have been irritating in any other, but from him seemed somehow precious. "Not the other half," he muttered. "I don't like the other half. I don't even particularly like the first half."

"And that is why you will grow up to be a lonely old woman with only your five hundred lizard-cats for company," Iroh said. "I know! We can toast to friendship!"

"I told you, we already toasted to friendship." Piandao turned a scowl on their royal host.

"Oh, I think it's worth a second round of praise," said Jeong Jeong, raising the cup slightly above his seated eye level with one hand even as he drew the fingers of the other back through Piandao's soft hair, long since come loose of any mooring. "To friendship, so that when we are all thre of us lonely old women with five hundred lizard cats, at least we may still be able to put up with one another."

That won drunken laughter and vocal acclaim from his friends, and they all raised their glasses with a smile. Piandao sat up just enough so he didn't spill his drink all over his face, but as soon as he'd emptied the cup, he fell back down, pillowing Jeong Jeong's thigh beneath his cheek. Jeong Jeong played some more with his hair, marveling at how cool his non-firebender's skin felt beneath Jeong Jeong's always-warm fingertips. "...Why did you challenge me to an agni kai?" he asked after a moment, frowning.

Piandao shrugged again, drawing his knees a little closer to his chest, and he shut his eyes. "I like watching you work," he said, as though this made sense of everything. And, Jeong Jeong thought, in a funny sort of way, it nearly did.

Arrangements

"I was wondering," she said, drawing her long hair away from her neck, "why you never remarried."

The late spring sky had been cloudless blue that morning, so naturally she'd gathered her children and opted to take lunch outside, and when she'd passed him with his own son in the corridor, it had been only polite to invite them to come along on their family outing to a small meadow at the foot of a nearby peak. They sat atop a wide blanket on the grass, the remnants of lunch spread out all around them, never taking their eyes from their children as his twenty-year-old son helped her seven-year-old son and five-year-old daughter scale a nearby outcropping. At a safe distance hovered a retinue of servants, their hired eyes ever-watchful.

He laughed, not to suggest her comment was ridiculous, but to let her know he took no offense. "I have not been lonely, if that is what you are asking, and am little lacking for ... companionship, as it were." He took his cup of tea and blew across its surface to warm it again. "But I have been a widower for twenty years, and I have not in that time found the need to marry again. Really, I found little enough need for it the first time, but my father, well...."

She wrapped up a small platter of sugar cakes before the ants could find them and placed them back in the basket. "He insisted?" she asked, her voice soft.

Never taking his eyes from the children, especially now that her son was perched on a rather precarious ledge, he nodded. "I was not opposed, of course, and we were happy together. And she gave me my son, for which I am grateful every day." He reached for the teapot, and she, seeing that his cup was empty, took its handle first and poured for him. "Thank you."

"My pleaure." Following much tribulation, her son made it to the top of the small rock formation, and they clapped for him as he waved to them, smiling proudly.

"My father chose for me," he said after a long moment, "wedding his eldest son to the daughter of one of his most trusted generals, a good political match. Of course, he gave me the opportunity to make my own selection, but I said to him, there are so many beautiful women in the world, how do you expect me to choose only one?" He took a sip of his tea and frowned. "In hindsight, though, considering my mother, perhaps his judgment of women should not have been something in which I put so much trust."

She stifled a laugh into her sleeve, a proper noblewoman who knew better than to laugh at her departed mother-in-law, and smoothed her skirts across her lap -- a girlish gesture, but she was little more than a girl herself, barely six years older than his own son. "I remember my father brought me to see the wedding parade. He carried me on his shoulders so I could watch you both pass. I think I remember seeing you there, in your black uniform, and she in her great red gown, as the palanquin carried you both down the street."

The memory was a good one, and he smiled, closing his eyes as the warm sun beat down upon his face. "Did you imagine then you'd be in the same place someday?"

"Dreamed, maybe, but ... never really dared to believe. Not right up until it happened, really." Her daughter joined her son atop the rock, and they waved similar encouragement, though her ascent had been less fraught. She watched them all with a wary eye, trusting her nephew completely yet still ready to spring into action at the slightest hint of trouble. "...Was I also your father's choosing?"

"No." He shook his head, staring down into his tea. "No, my brother ... is a man of strong tastes, and strong will. He is prone neither to compulsion nor to compromise. He would have you, and no other."

From the corner of his eye, he could see her re-settle her hands in her lap, though her face was hidden from him by the curtain of her long, dark hair. "Then I am flattered," she said, and her words were stone on the still afternoon air.

An Interesting Piece of Salvage

He woke to the feel of a wet cloth on his forehead's replacing where another slightly less wet cloth had been previously, aware that he had a fever and that the walls around him were made of ice, the latter of which he was willing to attribute to the delusions of the former. However, he reached out his hand, and the walls wept water beneath his fingertips.

The less wet cloth swatted his hand away. "I'll thank you not to melt the walls of my home," chided an unfamiliar voice. Its owner, a white-haired man in a distinctive blue coat, stood and unfolded a seal-lion pelt blanket from the foot of the bed. "As I know you're capable."

Despite the pounding in his head, Jeong Jeong struggled himself into a sitting position. "Where am I?"

"As I said, you're in my home." The man placed a hand in the center of Jeong Jeong's chest and pressed him back down to the bed -- which, he was grateful to realize, was not made of ice. Still hazy, Jeong Jeong allowed himself to be settled down again. He'd taken off with the landing skiff just before they'd reached the Great Gates of Azulon, and no one had questioned such a high-ranking officer's action. He wondered how long it had been before they'd figured he had no plans to return, and if the search patrols of the Fire Navy had just been incompetent, or if Iroh himself had called off the hounds. "The patrols found your craft in pieces and you clinging to a shred of it," the man continued, crossing a room to a table topped with a pile of items, some of which looked quite familiar. "I had them bring you here."

The earlier comment about melting finally permeated Jeong Jeong's aching skull. "...Then you know what I am?" he asked, a low panic settling like a drum in his heart, heat unbidden pricking his fingertips.

With a smirk that could not precisely be classified as 'pleasant', the man stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "Let's see: you were found with the wreckage of a metal ship, the Ocean only knows how long you survived in freezing temperatures without so much as a hint of lingering frostbite, and you're currently suffering only minor effects from a fever Yugoda says would kill a man half your age. Oh, I believe I have more than enough evidence at hand to make an educated guess."

Jeong Jeong bowed his head, utterly defeated. "Then am I guest or prisoner here?"

"Neither." The man folded his hands inside the sleeves of his robes. "My speculations are my own; I see no reason to burden the members of my tribe with an old man's fanciful imaginings. At present, you are a patient; when you recover, you shall be merely an interesting piece of salvage, free to drift off as you please." With a shrug, he turned back to the pile on the table, rummaging through fabric Jeong Jeong recognized as his coat; he had torn all its regalia away and thrown the pieces to the sea. "It's a testament to the mercy of the patrols that they did not leave you where they found you, and a testament to your personal effects that I did not allow them to throw you back."

"What do you--" Jeong Jeong began to ask, but his question died in his throat when he saw the white lotus tile -- his white lotus tile -- caught between the man's thumb and forefinger. Its slightly scored enamel shone in the orange torchlight. "...And have I found a friend among the Water Tribe?"

"No," snapped the man, closing the piece tight in his hand. "A comrade, perhaps. But even the petals of the White Lotus have been scorched by the Fire Nation's flames of conquest."

"I am no longer of the Fire Nation," said Jeong Jeong, speaking the words aloud for the first time, weighing them even as they fell from his mouth. "I have become a deserter."

The man's mouth twisted for a moment, an unreadable expression that was gone as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed in the end by his ever-present smirk. "An interesting piece of salvage indeed." He gestured with his free hand, and a single thread of water lifted from a basin in the corner of the room, filling a previously unnoticed wooden bowl by Jeong Jeong's bed. "To your health, deserter."

Unsure of anything now but his thirst, Jeong Jeong lifted the bowl to his lips and drank, and the water was so cold that it burned in his mouth.

Sterile Conditions

"How is he?" Hakoda rose the moment the nun stepped from the door, concerned to find the corridor darker than he had remembered; he must have dozed off while waiting. His head felt a little foggy -- they'd given him so many things to drink as they stitched up his leg, one of them must have had some sedative effects -- but concern brought a sobering clarity.

The nun frowned at him. "Quite alive," she said, as though the man outside her door had been a fool for worrying over a worse fate. She removed her doctor's gloves and apron, neither of which looked to be stained with blood, which was another relief to Hakoda's troubled mind. "Not out of danger, though."

Hakoda winced as he moved his weight wrong on his injured leg. "What do you mean?"

"Burns are tricky things, and his are extensive." She touched the fingers of her right hand to her left wrist, then dragged them all the way up to the underside of her jaw. "By themselves, they pose little threat to his life. However, they must be cleaned and bandaged and salved extensively over the next several weeks, or infection becomes the greater threat. If wounds like his become septic, the patient's outlook becomes grim."

"Weeks?" The Mother Superior stepped from the same door the doctor nun had previously, wearing the same calm expression they must all have spent hours practicing, and Hakoda turned to her. "Mother, please, we don't have weeks."

"I'll make this plain: if you move him now, he will die," said the doctor, folding her arms across her chest. She had a pretty sort of pout to her face, the immovable kind that Hakoda knew well from years of marriage; better to argue against a glacier, as glaciers sometimes melted.

The Mother Superior placed her wrinkled hand on Hakoda's bare arm, just below his elbow. "Chief Hakoda, our abbey owes you much for your protection. If you and your men had not been nearby, the soldiers might well have destroyed much of our land. Your comrade may stay with us as he heals, and we will tend to his wounds with diligence until he is well enough to venture forth on his own."

His father had always called decisions like these two-headed tiger-sharks -- unavoidable, undesirable, and with teeth at both ends. What sat so hard on Hakoda's heart was not that the choice was difficult, but that it was too easy -- leave Bato behind, like they'd all left their families behind, continue pressing forward for the greater good. He wondered if sacrifice came with a line that must not be crossed, and in the same breath wondered if he'd know it when he saw it, or if he'd have to look behind him to find it. "...I'll discuss the matter with him."

"Oh, he's already agreed." The Mother Superior smiled, folding her hands into her sleeves. "Of course, only if his chief gave his consent."

"He's awake?" Hakoda made a move for the door, but the doctor nun intercepted him efficiently, a formidable roadblock even at nearly two heads shorter than he was.

"You're filthy," she said, frowning at his hands and clothing -- which did look as though he'd just fought a battle, but such was to be expected, considering that he had. "Did I not just say the words 'infection' and 'die' in nearly the same sentence?"

Stunned by her reproach and appropriately abashed, Hakoda stepped back, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "Mother Superior, doctor, I cannot thank you both enough for your generosity."

"Well, we don't often let men in our abbey at all, much less let them stay here, yet...." She gave a wise sidelong smirk to the doctor, whose stone frown softened almost instantly into a smile that she tried unsuccessfully to hide behind her habit. "Your tribesman seems to us all a man both of great honour and of little ... inclination, and as such we sisters have no fears about allowing him to remain among us."

Hakoda blinked at her for a moment, then caught her meaning and smiled. "Ah, no. You're all quite, quite safe." He pressed his fists together and bowed to them each in turn. "I'll ... go find some soap." With a heart both light and heavy, he limped off into the abbey, in search of a wash basin and a change of clothes.

The Pink Ones

The door to the cell slammed open, and the new warden -- a woman with the approximate dimensions of a small house, who had probably been hand-picked for the position by Azula -- stormed in. Mai didn't do her the courtesy of standing. "Leave us!" she barked to the guards, and they tromped out of the room, slamming the heavy metal door shut behind them.

The warden stared at the door a moment longer, as though they might burst in again at any moment, before crouching down to Mai's eye level. She placed a bundle of prisoner's rags on the floor, which still looked cleaner than the outfit Mai had spent the last five days wearing, unable to remove by virtue of being chained at the wrists and ankles. "You're being transfered. I'm going to undo your cuffs, and you're not going to give me any problem, or I'll slap them back on and you won't see daylight again. Understood?"

Though it took great strength of will not to spit in the woman's face, Mai bit down her pride and nodded. "Why?" she asked, surprised at how dusty and dry her voice sounded. She wasn't one to chatter anyway, but talking again made her realize she hadn't said a word since the first time the cell door had slammed shut. Alone, in near-darkness, she'd instead used the time to think.

"Your uncle saved my life once," said the warden, pulling out an enormous set of keys. She unfastened the cuff around one of Mai's ankles, and then, when a certain amount of time had passed and Mai had not attempted to kick her in the face, she unlocked the other. "I don't like to owe anyone anything."

Mai held out her hands in front of her, and tried not to sigh with relief as the heavy shackles tumbled to the floor with a clatter. "And Ty Lee?"

The warden nodded, and as she stood, Mai could see the ghost of a smile on her lips. "He said you wouldn't go without her. Get dressed and be outside in two minutes." She kicked the clothes toward Mai with her foot, then disappeared through the door again, shutting it so hard the sound rattled Mai's teeth.

With her ankles and wrists red from where they'd been bound, and her muscles sore from a lack of exercise, getting dressed proved to be something of a challenge. Mai knew she'd missed the deadline when a heavy hand began pounding on the door, and she hastily threw on her shirt before summoning all the strength she had left and giving it a good pound back. The guards opened the door and Mai stepped out into the bright corridor, her jaw clenched and her head held high, determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing her defeated.

As she rounded the corner to a larger hallway, though, she nearly crumpled to the ground as she saw Ty Lee, seated cross-legged and flanked by three guards with fierce-looking polearms. There was no need for their caution, though, Mai could see, because Ty Lee carried herself as though she'd recently been beaten within an inch of her life. She had no visible cuts or bruises, but she held her body in a way that spoke of unseen pain, and she bore the same marks around her ankles and wrists that Mai did. Her hair was mussed and mostly loose of its braid, and long brown locks fell wild around her shoulders, framing her absent, slack expression.

And then she looked up and saw Mai, and it was as though someone had ripped a mask from her face -- or, Mai thought, like someone had slipped one on. Her glassy stare melted away, and her eyes grew wide with delight; she didn't jump to her feet so much as stagger there, but her trademark enthusiasm was behind the entire gesture, triumphant and contageous, and Mai had never before been so glad to see the most annoying person she knew.

The guards took their rigid posts at either end of the hallway, and Mai hurried to Ty Lee as fast as she judged she could go without getting someone's bladed weapon drawn on her. She held out her arms, and Ty Lee pitched into them, nuzzling her face into the crook of Mai's neck. Mai thought to point out that after five days of being unable to bathe, she was probably pretty filthy, but couldn't bring herself to give Ty Lee a reason to stop. "Some summer camp they got here, huh?" she joked.

Mai stroked back Ty Lee's filthy hair, trying to fight back the urge to hug her so tight her bones broke. "I heard Tigon Beat gave it four stars."

"Three and a half," Ty Lee corrected her. Mai could hear a drugged slur to her words; the guards had probably panicked and slipped sedatives in her food after they'd seen her take down Azula. "Half a star off for the tacky decor. Though I have to say," she added, turning up the volume so she could clearly be heard by everyone in earshot, her lips brushing Mai's bared collarbone as she spoke, "some of counselors are pretty cute!"

The guards around them -- all of whom were women, all of whom were rendered mostly anonymous by their ridiculous helmets and unflattering uniforms -- looked at each other with somewhat puzzled expressions, and Mai muffled a laugh in Ty Lee's hair. "Leave it to you to find the silver lining," she said quietly.

"It's my job," Ty Lee chirped. She locked her arms tight around Mai's neck and waved brightly as the crowds parted and the new warden stormed her way through. "Is it time to go to the festival now? Do we get to play the game where the little painted wooden turtle-ducks swim by and you get to pick whichever one you want and if you pick a right turtle-duck you get a prize? Because I'm really good at that one. Want to know my secret?"

The wardens' expression grew even sourer, which Mai hadn't thought possible, and Mai could have kissed Ty Lee for it. "You've been reclassified prisoners of war," she said, her voice ringing off the iron walls. "You'll be taken to the Imperial Prison near the capitol where you will be summarily dealt with."

Mai's mind did a quick accounting of the situation: the tower prison was closer to Azula than the Boiling Rock was, which was definitely a net negative, but on the other hand, as far as she knew, it wasn't equipped for state executions. Besides, the place was already crowded with foreign invasion troops, which meant the chances of her being separated from Ty Lee again had almost vanished. For the first time in her life, Mai found herself grateful at the thought of constant companionship.

Ty Lee laughed and clapped her hands together. "This'll be fun! We'll ride all the rides and eat shichimi dango, and I'll paint my toenails gold, and Mai says she'll ride one of the dragon boats with me!"

The warden frowned at Mai, as though to ask why her friend had gone so obnoxiously out of her mind in such a short period of time, and Mai shrugged helplessly. "What can I say?" she deadpanned. "She likes dragon boats."

"Take them away!" barked the warden, obviously having had enough of this nonsense for one day.

"Hey!" Ty Lee's hand shot out even faster than Mai would have thought her capable of in her state, and she beckoned the warden closer. Frowning, the warden took a step toward the girls, and Ty Lee sighed, waving her closer still. After several seconds' worth of waving and inching in turn, the warden reached a distance that was apparently satisfactory to Ty Lee, who then leaned so far into the gap between them that Mai had to tighten her grip around Ty Lee's waist and brace her feet to keep them both from tipping over. Ty Lee lifted a hand to the side of her mouth, and her voice softened to a conspiratorial stage whisper. "Always pick the pink ones."

Though the trip to the Imperial City was long and uncomfortable, every time Mai felt her spirits sagging, all she had to do was think of the look on the warden's face, and she smiled.

Jericho

They found him in kneeling front of the palace, his forehead pressed to the ground as if in penance, or perhaps in prayer. Jeong Jeong looking to Piandao, because Piandao had always been the prudent one, and Piandao gestured him silently onward: go on, you've known him the longest. The others nodded their assent, and Jeong Jeong stepped forward until his feet came to rest in line with Iroh's shoulders, just before the smoldering Fire Nation banner on the ground.

Already he could feel the comet's force fading, its incredible power slipping away and leaving exhaustion in its place; his arthritic joints throbbed the way they did on cold mornings, a misfit chorus of creakings. While he knew the others did not ache with the comet's absence as they two did, he could see fatigue drawing their faces down, here as the tension evaporated at the battle's safe end. Pakku's scowl had deepened into a near-grimace, and even Bumi's customary manic grin was ragged at the edges. They were all demonstrably too old for nonsense like storming impenetrable cities.

"Well," Jeong Jeong said after a long moment, watching as the wind scattered glowing embers across the stone courtyard, "I think I need a drink."

Iroh laughed like thunder at that, sitting back on his heels, and Jeong Jeong was half-surprised to see that his cheeks, though sunken with weariness, were dry. "I should say we all deserve at least one."

That uncertain moment passed, the other members of the White Lotus' Really Old Guys Strike Force (as Sokka had once made the grevious error of calling them in their collective earshot) stepped forward to join their firebending comerades. "I hear tell that the Earth King has fantastic wine cellers," grinned Bumi, folding his muscled arms beneath his ill-fastened robe. "As the highest-ranking member of the Earth Kingdom nobility in the vicinity, I hereby declare myself regent and appropriate them in the name of the White Lotus. Ooh, maybe they'll even paint a portrait of me in the Great Hall."

"Then you'll have to do all the other governing, too, you know," Piandao pointed out.

Bumi hummed thoughtfully, a sour look squishing his mouth to one side of his face -- then brightened again, jabbing a finger into the air. "I'll summarily disqualify myself on account of being an inveterate drunkard and un-appoint myself sometime later this evening! It's a brilliant plan!"

"It's a wonder your civilization has lasted as long as it has." Pakku rolled his eyes, though his efforts to keep down his good humour were not entirely successful.

With an exaggerated scowl, Bumi summoned a pebble from the ground into his palm and flicked it hard, bouncing it right off Pakku's broad brow; the look of extreme indignation Pakku made as he clasped his hands across his forehead set the rest of them rolling with laughter. "Rock blocks water," Jeong Jeong quipped.

"Water smacks fire," Pakku snapped back at him, though by now he was smiling as well -- not his bitter little smirk, even, but his rare and honest, handsome smile. "At any rate, it's nice to see we haven't all been fried to a crisp, and I think I can drink to that."

Piandao nodded his agreement, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Then I propose our first toast be to the world's not ending."

"The world doesn't end," Iroh said, pulling himself slowly to his feet; Jeong Jeong slipped a hand beneath his elbow and helped him stand, and when Iroh made no move to free his arm, Jeong Jeong did not let go. "But I will drink to having it stay the way it is for at least a little longer."

Bumi fisted his hands on his hips and cackled, throwing his head back to the sky. "Enjoying fine wine in the company of wise old farts such as yourselves may just be the highlight of my week." He set off first with his bold, flat-footed gait toward the palace doors, and they followed after him, smiling quietly at a shared victory that never looked back to acknowledge just how close they had come to destruction.

Kissing the Fire Lord

Two days before the Jasmine Dragon officially re-opened for business, Iroh was fussing about in the kitchen when he heard a knock on the back door. Despite the lateness of the evening and the fact that he was alone, he turned the latch, half-expecting to find some irate Dai Li ex-agent or grudge-holding Earth Kingdom soldier on the other side.

What he found instead was a green-clad bundle of young lady, her hair drawn into plaits down either side of her head, who looked at him with wide eyes and asked, "Did I really kiss the Fire Lord?"

"Well, he wasn't Fire Lord at the time," Iroh pointed out, gesturing her inside and latching the door behind her. "Unless you mean you kissed his father, which I wouldn't recommend."

Jin laughed and wrapped her arms around Iroh's neck, and he hugged her in return. He'd resigned himself long ago to never knowing how most of the stories he encountered would turn out, and thus was always pleased when the more pleasant parts of his past found their way back into his life. "No, just Li. Sorry, Zuko. ...Wow, that sounds weird to say."

"It is always somewhat strange to learn new names for old faces." There was a pot of jasmine tea on the counter, and though it had long gone cold, Iroh took two cups from the drying rack. "Can I get you some tea?"

"Oh, I'd love some, thank you." Jin ran her fingers along the marble countertops. "You know, back then, I wasn't just coming in because of Li-- Zuko. You really do make the best tea."

"You are too kind!" laughed Iroh, filling the cups. He took the more ornate of the pair and blew across its top until steam began to rise, then handed it to Jin, whose eyes were wide as she took it from his hands.

"Wow," she said, looking not at the tea but at its maker, a little smile playing at the corner of her lips. "I mean...."

Iroh nodded and heated his own cup in the same way. That was what he had missed during his months in exile -- being able to pour that last bit of himself into the tea, to bring it to life. "You mean, there is a difference between knowing something about someone, and seeing it?"

"Yeah." Jin sipped at her tea and smiled. "Like ... sure, I know he's the Fire Lord now, but I think if I ever actually saw him all Fire Lord-ed up? I'd ... well, I'd probably laugh. And get thrown in prison for laughing at the Fire Lord, or something."

Iroh chuckled. "If laughing at this Fire Lord ever becomes a criminal offense, I will be the first man jailed for it. Retroactively, even." He took another sip of tea, pleased that the cooling had not affected the taste, and set it on the counter. "I am always pleased to receive visitors for any reason, especially when they are beautiful young ladies, but you seem as though you have something on your mind other than my nephew's new position."

Caught, Jin sighed and stared into her tea. "I'd heard you were back," she said, "and that ... well, I heard who you were. Are. Were?" She looked at him, puzzled.

"A little of both, I think." Iroh shrugged and twirled his fingers, indicating that she should continue.

"Well. Anyway." She drained her tea in a single nervous gulp. "I mean, you're in the Upper Ring now, and I'm sure that you've got all sorts of experienced tea-servers just lining up to work for someone as famous as you, but I was wondering--"

"Do you want a job?" asked Iron, and as she nodded meekly, he broke into a grin. "Wonderful! You start tomorrow! We have many things still to get ready before we open."

Jin's cheeks pinked, as though she hadn't expected anything of the sort. "Are you sure? Really sure? I mean, I know we only met a little...."

Iroh reached over and placed his hand on her shoulder, feeling her relax beneath his touch. "There are many young women in the world who judge by appearances, and many more who judge by illusions. But you saw through to my nephew's good heart at a time when it was hidden even to his own eyes. I would be honoured to be able to continue the pleasure of your acquaintance, and this shop will be honoured by the presence of a young lady of such clear judgment."

"Then I accept," smiled Jin, and new employer and employee bowed to one another.

New Legs

They'd had to veer to the west to avoid a thunderstorm, so it was well past dark by the time the lights of the Northern Air Temple drifted into view, and the platform where they landed was entirely empty. "I guess it's past everyone's bedtime," Haru shrugged, searching for signs of life and finding none.

"Guess so," said Aang, jumping down from Appa's head. Haru untied his two large duffels from where they'd been tied to the back of the saddle, and Aang airlifted them to the ground as Haru slid down Appa's furry tail. "Hey, you mind if I go get Appa tucked in for the night? He's pretty pooped."

Haru shook his head, gathering a bag in each hand. It was impressive how well his whole life seemed to fit into such little space, with even room to spare. "No sweat. I really appreciate the ride."

Aang tossed off a little salute and a wink. "Thank you for choosing Avatar Airways, the only way to fly!" He hopped back up on Appa's head, and together they took off to the far tower, where Aang had convinced the Mechanist to preserve the sky bison stalls.

The tall spires of the temple rose against the cloudy sky, silhouetted by distant lightning. Alone on the platform, Haru seriously considered setting up camp right there, just erecting a rock tent in case the storm blew in before morning, leaving questions of lodging for the daylight. It wasn't as though he'd never slept rough before, and besides, it seemed somehow impolite to go nosing around through someone else's living space unguided, especially in the dark.

"I was wondering when you'd arrive," said an almost-familiar voice from a darkened doorway. "Guess Dad was right about the weather slowing you down." Haru turned to see a tall man walk forward -- though, really, walk was too generous of a word for it; he half-wobbled, half-rocked into each step, balancing himself with long poles that strapped to his forearms. He took two steps closer to Haru, three, four -- then pitched forward with a panicked, "Woah! Woah! Woah!"

He would surely have faceplanted hard, had Haru not lifted the ground beneath him in time to slow his descent, then rushed forward to gather him in his arms before he could fall the rest of the way to the floor. "Teo?" he sputtered, even though in the light from the courtyard's single lantern, the young man's identity was clear.

"Hey, Haru," Teo smiled, wrapping his arms around Haru's shoulders and letting Haru help him back to his feet. In the year they'd been apart, helping their respective fathers restore their communities' lives back to the way things were before, Teo's face and body alike had grown long, and a now thin trail of brown hair stretched a line from his lower lip down his chin. His voice had changed, not so much deepened as lost a touch of its softness, settling into a pleasantly rich tenor. "I wanted to surprise you with my new legs! ...I'm still not very good with them, though."

Haru drew back enough from the embrace to get a better look at the elaborate braces that extended from Teo's waist downward, which looked to be mostly large, curved metal bands held in place by compex series of buckles and straps Haru couldn't even begin to interpret in the darkness. "Wow," he said, and he meant it. "Did your dad make these?"

"Actually? It was mostly me." Despite having the poles at hand for ready support, Teo seemed far more interested in using Haru for balance, something with which Haru was having a hard time arguing. "I mean, I based it on some drawings he did, and he actually helped me put the stuff together, but they're my new legs." He gave a little hop, as if to show how well they worked, and winced as he came back down. "...Actually, I just use my chair most of the time. These hurt after a while, and I still fall down a lot. But at least I can manage stairs. Like, two or three, anyway. Hey, you shaved!"

"Yeah." Haru rubbed his bare chin. "Remember how I told you I was trying to grow a full beard like my dad?"

"Uh-huh?" Teo nodded. They'd exhausted a poor messenger hawk between them that year, ferrying letters almost constantly back and forth across the continent, and it had become an act of great discipline for Haru to allow the bird a full day's rest each time before sending it on its way with his reply. He'd accumulated about one letter a week, and all fifty had made this one last return trip with him, precious cargo wrapped at the bottom of his biggest bag.

"Well, it ... wasn't so great. He suggested I try again a little later." When you're thirty, in fact, had been his father's exact phrasing, accompanied by a fierce hug as he and his wife saw their only son off on the Avatar's sky bison, sending their little boy as a man out into the vast world. Haru supposed it was as sound a piece of advice as any.

Teo laughed, bringing up one hand to caress the smooth skin of Haru's jaw. "So, are you really here to stay?"

Haru nodded, tapping one of the duffels with his toes as evidence that he'd brought everything he owned with him, and drew his arms around Teo's waist. "Really," he said, bringing their foreheads together. It had been a hard decision, to leave his village and set out to make a home in a place he'd never even seen before now, but when he thought about not what but who would be waiting for him, the choice became clear. "...At least, until you kick me out. Or try to make me get on one of those crazy glider things you talk about."

That made Teo laugh again, and Haru breathed in deep, as though he could draw that sound inside of him for good. As fiercely as he loved the solid ground of his home and his parents, he'd returned only to find that his heart had left him behind, and that following it could lead to only one destination. "I missed you," Teo said, running the pads of his fingertips along Haru's jawline.

"Well, I'm here now," said Haru, who leaned back enough to look Teo in the eye and was somewhat tangentially surprised to find that Teo was very nearly his same height now. It had been too long indeed, and Haru resolved never to let it be that long again. "For good." And with a move he hoped was particularly suave, because it had been so long since he'd tried it and he wanted to make it memorable, he leaned in for the first time in over a year to kiss his boyfriend.

Long

"All I'm saying, babycakes, is a lot of men take it up the ass."

As a matter of sheer self-preservation, Sokka located the closest soft thing he could find -- a pair of discarded pants, it turned out to be -- and nudged it awkwardly over his head. "This is me in my happy place. La la la, my very own happy place, where I can't hear you."

Toph smacked his butt hard enough for him to feel it all the way in his happy place. "Don't be such a baby. I've got plenty of lube." As if to prove her point, she dribbled a little trail of oil across his bare back, and he very manfully did not shriek at the chill or the texture. "You can leave the pants over your head, though. I'd say it's an improvement on your looks."

Even though he knew she wasn't serious, he tossed his head back and forth until he'd emerged again, just to spite her. He would have pulled them off with his hands, but his wrists were currently encased in rather efficient rock handcuffs, extended just far enough in front of him to maybe prop himself up on his elbows, if he wanted. His ankles were in similarly dire straits down at the other end of his body, pinning him face-down to the cold marble floor, and he didn't need her special earthbending senses to know that behind him, Toph was grinning like a maniac.

Then an ice-cold stone surface brushed the inside of his thigh, and this time he did yelp, jerking ineffectually against his restraints. "Did you just find that on the ground? That's not sanitary!"

He heard her disgusted sigh, and felt her warm body stretch out along the length of his, her heavy breasts pressing into his shoulderblades as she leaned forward. In her outstretched palm was a long jade object about the span of his hand from thumb to forefinger, though barely bigger around than his own thumb, beautifully carved with a ridged dragon design that curled around its cylindrical length from rounded tip to flared base. "Sokka, I'd like you to meet Long. Long, this is Sokka. He's kind of a whiner, but you learn to tune him out."

Admiring the exquisite craftsmanship of the object distracted Sokka momentarily from its intended destination. "When did you get that?" It was pretty frigid, especially for a dragon.

"Birthday present from Suki." She kissed him on the back of his neck, just beneath his hairline, then sat back between his thighs. "Now shut up or I'll gag you."

Possessed of no doubts that she would indeed do exactly that if he gave even an inch more protest, he sighed and let his muscles relax, resting his forehead flat against the floor. Toph smacked his ass again -- and oh, would he ever not own up to how much he'd learned to like that -- and sent a little trail of oil dribbling downward toward critical nether regions. Sokka squirmed, but held his tongue, and presently felt a pair of fingers press pointed between his thighs. "Don't worry," said Toph, her voice dripping with truly wicked intent, "I'll be gentle."

"It's not you I'm worried about," said Sokka meekly, glossing over the part where he doubted Toph had been gentle about anything a day in her life, "it's your dragon."

Toph clucked her tongue. "Oh, relax. He likes you."

Renewing his resolve never to wager anything again when Toph and alcohol were involved in any combination, Sokka sighed and -- with far more anticipation than he'd ever admit to, least of all to her -- prepared to ride the dragon.

Almost Home

Near the end of the eighth summer since she'd started walking west, she lowered herself over the edge of the cliff and down her rope; she swung twice and landed with a roll in the middle of the courtyard, much to the surprise of a group of kids who had been playing hide-and-explode among the great stone pillars. "Excuse me," she said to the closest, a scruffy little boy with a whalebone necklace, "but I've been told I could find the Avatar here."

The boy looked at his companions, obviously unsure about how much information he should divulge. "Avatar Aang is away," he said after a moment's consideration.

"I see." She dusted herself off from where she'd hit the ground, allowing herself to marvel at the structures. They'd told her about this place, of course, and spared little detail, but it was still a sight to behold. "Well, then, could you--"

"Mai?" A familiar voice called her name from behind her, and she turned to see Katara, hugely pregnant, moving toward her with admittedly impressive speed for her condition. Her long brown hair looked as though it had once all been piled atop her head, but had spent the entire day giving in to gravity. As she stepped onto the platform, the children all bowed to her, and she lifted a hand to them in return.

Taking her cue from the children, Mai placed a fist against her flat palm and bowed, trying to swallow back the sudden crushing feeling that this had all been a terrible mistake. "...I don't mean to intrude."

"It's no intrusion! Welcome!" Katara threw her arms around Mai's slender frame, then pulled back almost instantly, frowning. "Have you eaten? I mean, in the last few days?"

"I have." Suddenly self-conscious of how bony she'd remained, particularly in contrast to how Katara's curves had filled her out so beautifully, Mai shrugged and looked at her feet. "I was just passing through," she said, as though she hadn't waited nearly a week in the westernmost Earth Kingdom port town she could find for a ship that was heading this direction, as though she hadn't paid the captain triple to leave her with a small skiff on the landmass' easternmost shore. Boats had always felt like cheating, in a way, though she was practical enough to realize that no journey from Ba Sing Se to the Fire Nation could be made entirely on foot.

With a proud smile, Katara gestured to the children, who had emerged (mostly without exploding) from their hiding places to get a better look at their visitor. "We're just getting started, but we hope to have twice this many next summer. Which means we'll need twice as many instructors, but at least there's no shortage of people wanting to work for the Avatar." She took Mai's arm at the elbow, leading her toward the nearest central pagoda. "I'll show you where you'll stay tonight so you can wash up before supper."

She was trapped now, Mai knew, because there were few ways to escape from a situation like this under normal circumstances, and absolutely none that could be executed while simultaneously supporting a pregnant lady. "I really don't want to be an imposition--"

Katara swatted her arm, but with a smile. "Stop it. I haven't seen you in years, of course you're staying tonight. Besides, it's not like you can just walk over to the next mountain and find an inn." She brought her hand up and ran it over the top of Mai's head. "I almost didn't recognize you. I really like your hair."

It took Mai a moment to realize what Katara was talking about, a moment to realize that while she'd first taken a knife to her carelessly scorched hair nearly eight years previous, for Katara it might as well have been done yesterday. "It got in the way a lot," she shrugged, letting Katara mess up what little there was to mess. "And you. You're ... big."

"Two months to go!" Katara beamed, pushing open the door to a clean, fully furnished set of bare quarters. "She'll be our first. Oh, Aang thinks she'll be a boy, but we know, don't we, sweetheart?" She rubbed her protruding belly as they walked inside, letting go of Mai's arm long enough to find her way into a chair by the door.

Mai set her pack down on the bed and frowned at Katara. "I think I'd trust the opinion of the waterbender who has the baby encased entirely in fluid inside her body."

"See? You're the smart one." Katara rested her folded hands across her abdomen. "I don't know how I can make two more months of this, though. I mean, I'm huge already, and I'm just going to get bigger. You're going to come out the size of a octowalrus, yes you are," she said in the general direction of her belly. "Just as long as you don't have as many limbs as an octowalrus. Or as many teeth."

Mai slipped off her shoes and her light outer coat, revealing the mechanisms that attached her projectiles to various parts of her body -- not that she'd thought the Western Air Temple posed any danger to her, but by now she felt nearly naked without them. "When my mother was pregnant with Tom Tom," she said, unsure even as she did of why she was telling Katara this, "she looked miserable all the time. She never said anything, but you could tell. All the time, she just looked pained. Like if you gave her the opportunity to stop, she'd do it, in an instant."

Katara shrugged. "Well, it hurts! A lot, actually. But it's going to be worth it." She poked her belly. "At least, it'd better be worth it. You hear that in there? Your mama isn't raising an ungrateful baby!"

Mai couldn't help laughing at the way Katara acted toward her unborn child, how completely different she was from the way her mother had behaved under similar conditions. Mai herself hadn't had much occasion to be around substantially pregnant women, not before she'd left the Fire Nation or since, and it was somewhat encouraging to see one in such high spirits about the whole procedure. "I'm really glad to see you're doing well," she said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed.

"I am," Katara smiled. "I really am. ...And how have you been?"

It was a question she'd not been asked that often in her life, and Mai had never been quite sure about how honest her response to that question was supposed to be. "All right," she said as she looked at her hands, figuring that as responses went, this was a good compromise candidate. "...It's been hard, sometimes, and a little lonely. But I'm glad I left. I wasn't for a while, but I think I really am now."

"Well," said Katara, "you're almost home."

Though geographically she'd known this to be true, there was still a mental gap between where she was an the city she'd once called home, and to have the proximity called out just made the prospect seem all the more distant. "...Maybe," she said after a long minute. "I mean, I don't know. There's still a lot of ground to cover."

With a nod that was more unreadable than most of her expressions, Katara pulled herself to her feet, stepping toward the door. "I understand, of course. Anyway, settle in and relax, and I'll have one of the kids come get you in an hour or so when supper's ready."

Unfastening the scabbard from around her thigh, Mai nodded. "Thank you," she said, already planning to put the hour to use for a quick nap.

"You're welcome." Katara started to pull the door shut behind her, then stopped, leaning against the door frame. "...You know," she said, turning back over her shoulder but not looking at Mai, "he misses you. He misses you, and he still thinks about you all the time. I don't want that to be any obligation, and I know he wouldn't want you to feel guilty about it, but ... I just thought that maybe you should know."

"Thank you," said Mai again, this time surprised to find how difficult it was to speak through the quiet lump that had grown in her throat.

The One Inside

He has dreams like this sometimes.

He'll be standing in some dark alley, the kind of alley you know was built just for these kind of foggy nights, with boxes that never held anything stacked along the sides, and garbage that no one ever used covering the floor. He stands there, trying to figure out where he is, even though he knows where he is, and knows, too, that the where isn't important. And then he hears a voice from the other end.

"I know you." It's his voice, it's always his voice, except he knows it's not a memory because the words have nothing left of the Irish lilt that he worked so hard to destroy. It does no one any good to run around the world sounding like one of the niggers of Europe. The world hadn't called them that back then, but the sentiment had been much the same.

"I know you," repeated, this time with dawning intelligence, as though the man at the other end of the alley might be faster than he is, smarter than he is, more capable of ripping his heart out.

He takes a step backward, not out of fear, but to regroup. That's all.

"Oh, no." His voice, again, but not his, closer now, though he hasn't heard anyone approach. "I know you. You stole it from me. I want it back."

"I didn't steal anything." This time the words come from his own throat, and they sound dusty and underused. "I only took back what was rightfully mine." He sounds uncertain. He doesn't feel uncertain, but his voice sounds weak. He wonders if that's a trick of dreams, that they cripple you so you never get control over them.

"You sound scared. That's not like you." He wants to say that he isn't scared, that nothing in the world scares him anymore, but he knows it's a lie, so he keeps his mouth shut. "I'll get you. I'll get it back. It's only a matter of time."

"You're nothing." His hands reach out among the garbage, among the boxes, looking for anything he might hold as a weapon. But everything is so smooth, so harmless. Nothing will break. "I've got you locked away. You don't exist."

"You don't seem so sure." The other one has a stake, has a long stake, long enough perhaps to reach him even from where they stand, too far apart to see each other's faces. "You don't seem so sure at all." Two steps closer, and the other is now in his face, and he can see every detail of every expression, but he doesn't know which one of them is real. The other puts a hand over his heart, beneath his jacket, cold flesh to cold flesh. "And that's all I need."

Every time he wakes, he finds himself wondering if the other one ever dreams of him.

Just the Messenger

That Damned Bell, as Giles had come to think of it, clattered as the door to the shop opened and a well-dressed, European-style man stepped inside. "Hello," he said, peering over a rack of various preserved amphibian parts that had just come in that morning. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Rupert Giles, I presume?" The man unwound his scarf, shaking out a hairful of snow, and shut the door behind him against the cold. "I have a message for you."

Giles had taken off his glasses and begun rubbing them with his handkerchief before he quite knew what he was doing. He had stopped sucking his thumb remarkably early as a lad, and figured this was his body's attempt to compensate for the lack of another comfort gesture. "Yes, I see. Go on."

Smiling a little, the man ran his fingers through his damp hair, smoothing it out in the store's dry heat. "A certain mutual acquaintance of ours wants me to tell you, and I quote, 'You can't keep a good man down.'" He brushed a stray trail of snowmelt from his Romanesque nose. "And he says he doesn't hold it against you, and looks forward to seeing you again in the -- not-too-near -- future."

All things considered, Giles took this marvelously in stride. "I see," he said, refitting his glasses to his face and pushing them about as far up the bridge of his nose as physics and anatomy would allow. "And you are...?"

The man held up his hands, one still carrying the grey wool scarf, the kind you could only really get in England anymore. "Just a messenger."

"I see." Giles pushed a jar of lizard tongues away from where it had been set precariously close to the shelf's edge. "And you came all this way to tell me that?"

"Not really, no. I was going to be in the neighbourhood anyway, and he asked if I'd stop by." He looked around, surveying the shop's contents with no small degree of approval. "...You wouldn't, by any chance, have good Solomon's Seal for sale, would you? I used the last of mine a while back, and I can't seem to find more anywhere."

"Of course." Giles shuffled helpfully across the shop, to a cabinet with several tiny, labeled drawers; he pulled out a glass jar and carried it to the sales counter. "No respectable magic shop should be without it."

The man shook his head sadly. "You'd think that, wouldn't you? Twenty grammes, if you would. Leave it to the New World to get sloppy with such things, when they're the ones who need it the most now."

Giles shook his head in kind, pouring out the crushed root onto a cold metal scale. "Regrettably lax of them. Twelve dollars fifty, please."

Black Magic Woman

"I'm right here, baby. It's okay. See? Everything's okay." Which was absurd, really, because 'okay' was something that happened to other people these days, if it happened at all. "Time to play that game you like."

Slayer strength was often a present help in times of trial, but was tragically only the barest match for the kind of power that bound Buffy's hands to the headboard. "Will," she pleaded again, "you really don't want to do this."

Her hand was clammy cold against Buffy's cheek, like a caress from a corpse, which was a sensation Buffy often wished she had only metaphorical experience with. "Oh, you always say that, and you always have a good time." Two black eyes looked straight at Buffy, but there was a chasm between looking and seeing a thousand miles wide. "Come on." Her lips, pressed to Buffy's forehead, were as icy as her hand.

"Will, please." She'd promised she'd stay calm, she really had, but she couldn't keep the note of panic from her voice. Panic made it difficult to think, difficult to work against the magical bonds that made it impossible to move. It was a full-body Chinese finger trap; the more she struggled, the tighter it held. And all she needed was inches.

Willow's lips worked their butterfly kisses down Buffy's face, nuzzling at the temples where her hair began. "Did you change your shampoo, baby? I like it."

Just a few more inches. The knife's silver blade lay only that far from her fingertips. If she closed her eyes, if she let herself relax, she might cut her own hand to pieces, but at least she'd be free. Thoughts flashed through her head of white tiles, bruises, a bathrobe, a shower, and how much she'd wished she'd had a knife a hair's breadth from her grasp back then. How easily it would be, one swing, one smooth stroke, and Willow would--

Her skirt slid up around her hips as Willow knelt between her legs and kissed her bared belly. "I love you, baby," she said, her words air against terrified skin, and she meant it. "I love you so much. So damn much." Fingers traced little glowing patterns against her body, ones Buffy wasn't even certain Willow was aware of, beautiful and delicate, reminding her of the henna Tara had detailed on her hand once, laughing together as her Slayer skin rejected the pigment so quickly. "I'm never gonna let you go. Nothing's gonna happen to you. Not while I'm here with you." There had been so much love. Even when it had gotten bad, it had only happened because they had loved one another so damn much. "See? I've got you."

All the fight ran like water from her bones. It would be all right. She wouldn't bruise this time. You always hurt the ones you love, they said -- but she wasn't the one Willow loved, in the end, so maybe it would be all right. She closed her eyes and abandoned her struggle for the knife as grave-cold fingers found the center of her warmth and pressed inside.

The Dark Age

Ripper will realise later that not knowing where his clothes are is one thing, while not caring where they are is quite another. But that won’t be for another several hours at least, and right now he has more pressing matters to attend to. Like Ethan, who is pressing against his cock. Certainly that demands some attention.

The Mark of Eyghon sears against his forearm, up to his shoulder, down his chest, turning into the overheated body of the man leaning over him and grinning like the moon as Phillip’s arms wrap and up his body. Or are they Thomas’? He seems to have lost track of where everyone has gone. Perhaps to the same place as his clothes. Ah, yes, that explanation makes a lot of sense. He resolves not to think about it. Are those Diedre’s hands knotted in his hair? Likely, as no one else carries that ever-present scent of lavender.

But it’s Ethan whose location is certain, Ethan who has positioned himself between Ripper’s legs and is fucking him on the stone floor, smudging to pieces the chalk pentagram they’d spent an hour getting just right, Ethan whose eyes shine with the residual heat of heavy magics. It’s Ethan who’s the star of this makeshift bacchanal, the one whose turn it was tonight to let the demon ride him, the one on whom all their magic-hungry eyes are trained. But Ethan has eyes only for him, and Ripper doesn’t know if it’s the demon or his old friend who digs fingernails into his hips and spreads his legs wide, thrusting into him with a slow, steady force the effects of which Ripper will start to feel about the time he starts worrying about his clothes.

Ah, there’s Thomas, resting his cheek against his hip, taking Ripper’s cock into his eager mouth, moving his tongue in a way that makes Ripper reach for the nearest solid objects – Diedre’s hand and Phillip’s thigh, it seems – a move which inspires Ethan’s grin even wider. “You like this?” he asks in a calm whisper that, though perfectly audible, seems to be only for Ripper’s ears.

Ripper nods. He can’t not. It’s the truth. He gets off on the magic, on the danger, on the kink of being fucked by a demon. They all take turns, of course, sharing the experience around, but whenever it’s Ethan’s turn, he picks Ripper, regular as clockwork. Ethan never says anything about it before or after. It’s just the way it is.

“Then why don’t you come for me?” And Ripper does, into Thomas’ waiting mouth, feeling the tattoo on his arm burn electric, like a gasp of air, and somewhere in the haze of it he may or may not choke out a name.

Ghost Physics

The first indication that Spike's recent predilection toward incorporeality would be a serious problem was when Angel got out of the shower and found Spike sitting jovially on his bed, waiting for his return. "Mite girly yelp you got there, mate."

With a growl, Angel reached for the towel he'd thrown carelessly on the floor and wrapped it selfconsciously around his waist. "Spike," he spat, in the way you'd say the name of the vegetable your mother always made you eat even though you hated it. "What the hell are you doing hanging around in my room?"

"Oh, don't get all testy. I just hoped we could have a chat. A little boy talk. Just like the old days." His tremendously chipper clip did nothing to alleviate Angel's suddenly foul mood.

Without turning his back to the vapourous intruder perched at the end of his mattress, Angel crossed the room and picked a pair of pants from the bottom drawer of his dresser. "Can't you make an appointment like any other semi-rational hominid?" He saw Spike's head turn attentively, watching him as he dressed, and he sidestepped behind a nearby chair. "And what -- would you stop that?"

"Stop what? I'm just looking." Spike's smirk was pure innocence. "I thought you might have had your willy bronzed for the good of all humanity, s'all."

Angel paused, mid-zip. "I plan to quadruple the budget to the science department, so Fred can find a cure for this walking-through-walls problem of yours, so you can go back to being solid, so I can throw you out the window of my office and watch you burn to charcoal on the way down. It'll be a party. We'll take pictures."

"Now that's right magnanamous of you. I'm certain she'll appreciate the extra cash, Freddy girl, what with all the hard work she puts in for you. Down there in the lab, slaving away over a hot Bunsen burner -- I'll tell you, it's like being barefoot and pregnant, how you've got her down there. 'Cept not so much with the pregnant, and she does have those little red Keds..." Spike's voice lost much of its power as he saw that Angel was looking at him not with annoyance, but with blatant curiosity. "What're you lookin' at?"

"I was just wondering," Angel said thoughtfully, pushing a strand of hair from his forehead, "why it is you can walk through walls and pass through people, but don't fall through floors." His eyebrows furrowed deeper. "Or my bed."

There was a very small pause, followed by a quiet, "Oh, bloody hell," and then Spike was gone, leaving only a slight disturbance beneath him on his way.

Angel shrugged and went to his closet to find a shirt, somethig comfortable, perhaps in a serene blue. Despite initial evidence to the contrary, today was shaping up to be a lovely day.

Special Cigarettes

"And then it said on the news that these two people had been killed in their home, and I thought, shit, that's so fucked-up, you know? And it was near where a friend of mine used to live, but she moved because her dad got a job in Australia, but her mom made really good rice, I mean, this rice was fucking great. And you think, hey, rice? What's so fucking great about rice? It's just, you know ... rice. But it was the best rice I'd ever tasted. It was just ... so white. You know?"

Nobuto took the pillow away from his face and squinted against the room's only light. "That's great."

"I mean, I like rice. Sometimes I eat it out of the fucking cooker." Kaz righted himself briefly, only to lose his balance as his arm gave way and he pitched forward onto the bed. Over the course of the evening, he'd taken off his own shirt and put on one of Nobu's, and it hung off his slender frame. "I mean, I just get a fork and then I stand there, and I'm eating rice just plain like that, or sometimes I get it and I put it in a cup, and put whatever's in the pantry on it. Like, sometimes there's peanut butter, and then there's sesame seeds, and they actually taste kind of alike, you know? Have you ever put peanut butter on your rame?"

"No." Nobu cast a sinister glance at the joint's remains, which had taken their place among their brethren in the glass ashtray beside his bed. This is all your fault, the look seemed to say.

Kaz picked at the hem of the shirt, which was half-buttoned and one buttonhole off besides. "You totally should. I mean, I know it sounds fucking gross, but there's this great sort of crunchy shit going on, and the peanut butter doesn't get too soggy, and then maybe you put an egg or something with it, and I like Ritz crackers, if my mom's got 'em in the cabinet. And you spread those around, and they kinda float, and then they get all wet and they sink--"

"Look, if you suck my dick, will it make you shut the fuck up?" Nobu reached down and unfastened his jeans, then slid them off his hips to reveal a pair of ratty boxers and the gentle rise of his cock -- still mostly soft, but more than willing to contribute to the very worthy cause of stopping Kaz from talking.

Indeed, it gave Kaz a moment's pause. "...Sure!" he said brightly, reaching into Nobu's shorts and drawing out his dick, which appeared to be slightly more interested by the attention. "...Hey, maybe we could see if there's some peanut butter in your cabinet, and then maybe there's some soba or something, 'cause I'm really kinda hungry--"

With more force than was strictly necessary, Nobu forced Kaz's head downward, stuffing his cock right in Kaz's mouth, and things were quiet, at least for a little while.

Taking Requests

"I stopped believing in God when I was three." John staggered unsteadily against the piano. "Didn't make the sodding bugger more likely to leave me alone, what."

The pianist took this mostly in stride. "It happens," he shrugged, modulating effortlessly into a lovely arrangement of 'Piano Man,' tune made even more lovely by its near-unrecognisability. /P>

John took another drink from his whiskey, crunching a piece of ice between his teeth and spitting half the cube back into the cut crystal class. "Three and a half, maybe. Even beat out Santa Claus. But not the Easter Bunny, eh? I was onto him when I was two, what." He looked particularly pleased with himself, an expression that arguably had nothing to do with the fact the man smelled like a garbage dump and looked like he hadn't had a shave in days. /P>

The other customers looked askance at the scene, but Lucifer played on. It didn't do well to tell old acquaintances what they could and couldn't do; and besides, if this scene reflected poorly on anyone later on, it would certainly not be he. "You are indeed the clever one." A cigarette smouldered in his ashtray; it was John's. He picked it up with his left hand, performing an impressive arpeggio with his right all the while, and had taken a drag and put it back down before the bass was even missed. /P>

"I don't even think I believe in you right now." Lonely ice cubes rattled at the dry bottom of the glass -- his third glass, to be precise, all three of which would go on his tab. There had been an altercation several years back, and John had always paid his bar tab promptly afterwards. "Poncy bugger. Stinking quitter! Bah. Of all the God-awful places in the world to go, why here?" /P>

Lucifer shrugged again, smiling thoughtfully. His skin was miles thicker than John's drunken insults. "When your point of comparison is Hell, any change of venue seems like an improvement." /P>

John nodded, conceding the point by lifting his glass, when suddenly he turned and heaved the contents of all three drinks, plus that evening's dinner, behind the heavy red curtain. Lucifer rolled his eyes; he'd have to flag down Mazikeen and get her to take care of that fairly immediately, and the dry cleaning would be going on John's tab besides. A few notes transitioned prettily to 'From Clare to Here,' and he heard John moan; cruel, perhaps, but for causing such a scene and throwing up on his stage, the bastard deserved it.

Half a Face

She’d begun to think of Mazikeen as having half a face of late, though it was ridiculous, especially when she considered that Maz had more of a face now than she’d had in the cellar of the bar. Beatrice wasn’t exactly sure what to think of that, but didn’t think they’d reached a point in their relationship where she could ask questions like, ‘So, were those your exposed brains I saw that night?’

No, they were at the point in their relationship where communication was accomplished mostly by grunting (that was Mazikeen) and soft pleading (that was she), and occasional post-coital requests for water (those were all hers) and inquiries as to whether or not that needed a bandage (Mazikeen again). All conversation was post-coital, really, because otherwise Mazikeen either wasn’t there, or was there and on top of Beatrice, pinning her to the bed and sinking tiny, sharp teeth into her neck. She’d had a boyfriend kind of like this in college, except he’d been totally fucked up at the time. Mazikeen was totally fucked up, but in a completely different way.

For instance, she managed to leave claw along the insides of Beatrice’s thighs with fingernails that didn’t exist. That was pretty fucked up. Or the way she had a dream about a snake crawling inside her as she sat and watched, only to wake up and to find nothing but Mazikeen’s tongue tracing patterns across the small of her belly. Though she wasn’t sure how much of that she could blame on Mazikeen, it was still fucked up.

Or the way the light from the candles fell on Mazikeen’s face, the way she kept her left side in shadow, the way it looked artificial. Like a prosthetic face. Except that was ridiculous, because who’d ever heard of a prosthetic face? Even in that Tom Cruise movie, it was just a plot device. The poor little plot device, becoming a movie star without ever knowing it wasn’t real.

What a shame.

There was a mouth against her mouth, and hands between her legs, and she thought there had been someone at the tent’s open door, so she tried to grab the sheet and pull it across her body, but it wasn’t there any more, and whoever was at the door could see her bared body. Didn’t Mazikeen care that someone might be watching them? But Mazikeen wasn’t naked, so Beatrice supposed it didn’t matter much to her. There wasn’t much to be modest about in full plate armour, after all. Not if you were Mazikeen. Not if you were the most beautiful woman in the world.

So she let herself concentrate on that, the hair that smelled like oil and leather, the hands that felt soft and dry, the muscles that slipped beneath tanned skin; let herself close her eyes and whisper what she wanted without even knowing what she said; let herself forget the figure at the door. She had probably imagined him there, anyway.

Pheremones

As much as he hated to admit it -- and boy, did he hate to admit it -- Bigby had actually gotten to like looking human. Well, he wasn't nearly as handsome without all his fur, and had didn't know how anyone managed much with teeth that blunt, but at least it was just a glamour that, like all other glamours, came off when necessary. Like, say, when eating a big juicy steak.

But at times like this, spread out naked on his bed, arms tucked behind his head for a makeshift pillow, he had to admit that it was okay. For starters, he wasn't that bad looking as a human – a little hairy, perhaps, for Snow's taste, he could tell, but not enough to turn her off, which was all that really mattered. Good thin she didn't really go for the smooth, hairless type. He'd do a lot of things for love, but a full-body Nair job was going a little too far.

He sometimes thought she’d make a pretty wolf – a prettier wolf than he did a person, at any rate; Jack wasn’t shy about telling him what an ugly mug he had. But it was hard to think of Snow being anything but beautiful, no matter what. She’d be sleek, with soft black fur, the kind of bitch you could bring home to mother, but still wild enough to be exciting…

Ah, that was another thing a human body could do better than a wolfy one.. He’d been so distracted thinking of Snow Wolf that he didn’t even really notice what his hand was doing until it was pretty much too late. Or that was his story, anyway, and he was sticking to it.

He was pretty thick, and he wondered if Snow liked her men that way. After all, being able to smell someone’s sorrow wasn’t exactly an infallable window into that person’s sexual preferences. Still, he could hope. She had such tiny hands, and she was always complaining about how cold they were. Well, about now he had somewhere real warm she could put them.

Oh, that was a very good thought.

She was small, true, but sturdy; he didn’t have to be afraid that he might break her. And she smelled really good. And those hips beneath her skirt, the way they moved, were just the right size for … well, for lots of things, really. And the way she said his name when she was angry at him, the sort of half-growl half-yell that made him think of a lot of things unrelated to anger, and her cranky little frown, and the way she chewed on the ends of her pens when she didn’t think he was looking, and the way her hands were never cold when they touched his--

Dammit, his chest hair was all sticky now. With vague thoughts in his mind that maybe that full-body Nair idea wasn’t such a bad one after all, he got up off the bed and lumbered toward the shower.

Wire, Briar, Limber Lock

The greatest insult about being trapped in her current state is not the state itself, but being trapped there. She can concede that the matched face has its advantages, and would have long before having it forced upon her, but the Basanos’ power has rendered it immutable, and that is a combined insult and handicap most grave. Whether or not she will keep the face when all is said and done is entirely beside the point – she merely wants the choice regarding whether or not to do so.

Her mother had taught her long ago by example that you don’t need genitals to fuck, and Lucifer has proven this true time and again above and beneath her in bed (she has none of her mother’s qualms about such things; her service is absolute and voluntary; he is not her husband). All immortals with power, in fact, have at least a modicum of choice regarding their appearances, something Elaine is discovering along with the territory of semi-godhood.

Mazikeen pretends not to notice as Elaine curls in next to her, pretends to continue sleeping even though they both know this to be a lie, for what kind of watchman would Mazikeen be if not awakened by such a disturbance? “I couldn’t sleep,” she confesses against Mazikeen’s ear, pressing her little bud-breasts against Mazikeen’s powerful bicep. She chooses to look this way, the girl does, chooses to appear as she did when she died, whether out of nostalgia or simple familiarity, Mazikeen does not know. For someone so grown up, Elaine is still so very young.

“Are you cold?” Mazikeen asks. There are certain formalities to be observed in situations like these, and one is the pretense that even the clumsiest seduction is graceful enough not to appear as what it is until a critical moment.

“Mmm,” answers Elaine, lifting one of her legs across Mazikeen’s belly and gasping softly as the soft, hidden area between her thighs rubs against the hard leather of Mazikeen’s armour. “Could be warmer.”

Mazikeen senses that her disinterest has much to do with the eroticism of the situation, and does not yet move to accommodate Elaine’s body. “I could rebuild the fire….” A few feet away, the fire flickers high again. “Or you could.”

Girlish fingers seek the side of Mazikeen’s face, the damaged side, the heretic side, coming to rest at the corner of Mazikeen’s deformed mouth. “You look nice like this.”

“To you,” Mazikeen responds, and she is surprised to hear the bitterness in her voice.

“I – I’m sorry,” Elaine stammers. Her hand draws back, and she moves as though to pull her body away, stopped in this retreat only by Mazikeen’s powerful hand on her thigh, moving up beneath her skirt to where the laced edge of her underwear cuts a half-moon across her hip. “Mazikeen, I –”

Mazikeen doesn’t want to hear any more. She presses her mouth against Elaine’s, feeling her way through the kiss with her broken lips and too-hidden tongue, making peace with her frozen shape for a little while.

New Wineskins

“I haven’t told anyone this,” Daniel says quietly, drumming his fingers against the stem of his crystal goblet. Every impact sings a tiny crystal song in the dim room. “Can I trust you to keep a secret?”

“Of course you can’t.” Lucifer’s features look even more leonine than usual in the firelight. “Don’t ask questions to which you already know the answer.”

This seems to unnerve the pale man, who has yet to perfect the art of being the Lord of Dreams while simultaneously looking comfortable in human skin. But such things are necessary concessions to reality, even in the certifiably most unreal nightclub in Los Angeles. “But I—”

“You can trust me not to dissiminate the information recklessly,” Lucifer amends, lifting his glass of a full-bodied Romanée-Conti to his lips and taking a slow sip. “You know that will have to be good enough.”

Daniel nods and pushes his hair from his eyes. He tucks self-consciously at the end of the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest, managing to keep himself as far away from Lucifer as possible while still sharing the same piece of furniture. He looks so young, far younger than his predecessor ever had, even back at the beginning. “I know we have a history.”

“We do.” The light makes Lucifer’s amber eyes sparkle. “However, I consider all accounts there settled. If you bear me ill will, it is your prerogative to do so, but I find I cannot be so bothered.”

This seems to settle Daniel somewhat, and he turns his star-eyes to the fire. Finally, he takes in a deep breath and lets it go. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lucifer raises an eyebrow, continuing in his long tradition of never asking a question to which he does not already know the answer.

Another drink, and Daniel puts his glass on a small oak sidetable. “Being someone I’m not. Or being someone I wasn’t. Being the same and not the same.” He frowns at no one in particular. “As though I woke from sleep in a house where I’ve never been, and yet still know that someone has come in while I slept and rearranged all the furniture.”

“You’ve always had a vivid imagination.” Lucifer leans closer, and Daniel finds that he has nowhere to go. “You and your predecessor. It’s a frivolous trait. But not a completely useless one.” A smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “You could always quit.”

The look that crosses Daniel’s face as he turns to look Lucifer in the eye indicates that this has never even been a possiblity. “...I can’t.”

“Of course you can. Your brother did it.” Lucifer’s voice is low and golden. “I did it.”

A long moment passes, and Daniel finally turns again. “I’m not you,” he admits with a soft smile.

“No.” A log snaps in the fire, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney and into the night. “I suppose you aren’t.”

BBC 2548

"It's almost starting!" Apollo leaned over the back of the couch, tapping the remote against his knee. "You're going to miss the opening credits!"

"Shut up, Dad!" Jenny called from the other room, before emerging with a tub of ice cream under each arm. Midnighter followed behind her, dressed in sweatpants and a tight t-shirt; he'd just recently returned from Kuala Lumpur, and had a terrible case of hood hair. Jenny vaulted over the cushions, landing smack dab in the middle of the couch, forcing her fathers to migrate to either side. Apollo was given the tub of double mudslide, and Midnighter, when he sat down, the chunky monkey.

Apollo turned up the volume a few notches, where the BBC-34 announcer was still nattering previews over the credits of the previous show (Seaquest: Altantica). "I still can't believe it exists," said Midnighter, shaking his head and preparing to fight Jenny for the best chunks of banana. "I mean, it only took the Carrier six months..."

Jenny frowned and made a clever jab; Midnighter fended it off with ease. "Infinite means infinite. Every universe exists. This one just--" she made another feint, which was countered with Midnighter's spoon, before settling down to eat with Apollo, who was better at sharing, "--took a little longer to find."

The commercials started wrapping up (there was one for the DVD re-release of Red Dwarf: The College Years, which Midnighter had never seen before in any universe), and Midnighter put his feet up on the coffee table. "An infinite number of Torchwood runs somewhere out there, and this long to locate one that isn't complete and total shit? That's not a good sign."

"Hush, you," said Apollo over Jenny's head. Jenny was concentrating on quadrupling the mini marshmallow content of the double mudslide quart, which was impressive considering there weren't mini marshmallows in double mudslide to begin with. "It's starting."

As hard as he might try to be a grump about it, Midnighter couldn't help settling down as the episode opened and five beautiful people sauntered forward in the rain and the fog to investigate the mysterious murder. Each was completely naked except for a flowing black trenchcoat and somewhat inexplicable pink galoshes. Though he didn't see any other improvements thus far on the dozen or so other versions they'd had the Carrier pipe in from the Bleed, he had to admit that the co-starring role John Barrowman's tremendous wang had apparently been given would singlehandedly make this iteration more watchable.

After a few minutes, he 'accidentally' left the chunky monkey unguarded near his knee, and arrived just a few moments too slow to stop Jenny from pilfering some. Apollo smiled and let his arm drape across the back of the couch, and Midnighter took his hand, absently brushing his love's knuckles with his thumb.

Filthy Assistants

"You know," sighed Yelena, taking the cigarette from Channon's hand and bringing it to her own lips, "I don't have to put up with this shit. I was valedictorian. By a lot. Lots of people would give me a job. Fuck."

Channon leaned over the side of the bed and scrounged around for a hairbrush. It was such a pain finding anything in this dump. No matter how hard she tried to keep it clean, if anything, it just got worse. She suspected it was Spider's aura, leaking onto everything. Like some fungus. Some really gross liquid fungus. "So, why don't you just quit?"

That prompted about the bitterest laugh from Yelena that Channon had heard in a long time. "Oh, yeah, right. He'd, like, meet me at the door or something, bowel disruptor in hand, screaming something about the downstairs neighbour's toenails and swearing he'd haunt me naked through my dreams. No thanks." She lit another cigarette of her own and stuck it in the corner of her mouth. Some days just one wouldn't do it.

There was the hairbrush, hibernating under a discarded sheet and some unspecified goo; she pulled it away and began to rake it through her hair. "Why not? I did it. Felt good, too."

"Yeah," Yelena said, lighting yet another cigarette and placing it directly between Channon's lips, "but you came back."

"I guess." Channon hadn't seen fit to put on a shirt -- or, really, anything else -- and her breasts bounced every time she hit a tangle. "It's kinda like a train wreck, you know? Like a really bad one, the kind you have to slow down for on the off chance you might see a hand or somebody's stomach or something."

Yelena shook her head and ground out the first cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed. "Yeah, maybe." She sighed and pulled the sheet a little closer to her neck. It wasn't that she was modest, per se, or even that self-conscious; she knew that she was adequately proportioned -- it was just that Channon's portions were so much more adequate. "I don't know."

Channon laughed and tugged the sheet away. "What, are you cold?" The temperature in the room was cloyingly warm, as Spider had decided to punish them all by skimping on the cooling bil