"Stop it!" Katara snaps, causing Zuko's next insult to freeze into silence and then begin to creep back down his throat. "I don't know if this is just a clash of personalities or some kind of silly competition to see who has the bigger sword" -- behind her, Aang and Toph break into admiring giggles and sadistic snickering respectively -- "but we are a team and we have a serious mission to complete, and the last thing we need is you two ruining everything because you're being boys." She points away from the campsite. "Go on. Sort it out. Come back friends or I'll -- I'll give you cold showers twice a day. Personally," she adds, glowering.
Zuko is about to resurrect and redirect his cutting retort when Sokka grabs his arm. "She means it," he mutters. "Do you really want to wake up sopping wet and freezing? Come on."
"Let go of me," Zuko mutters in return, shaking his hand off, but he follows Sokka until they're in the clearing they were gathering wood in earlier. "Now what? Are we supposed to talk?"
"We could make out," Sokka suggests.
To his own sheer horror, Zuko almost agrees out of curiosity, before he works out that Sokka was joking. This whole traitor-to-his-blood-and-country thing sucks. He misses his uncle. He misses Mai. He wishes Sokka was not so obnoxiously good at things like having a normal family and a sane sister, and talking to girls, and just standing there with his stupid, handsome, unscarred face. Sokka is probably a really good kisser. The bastard.
"Ha ha," he says scathingly, and gives a flick of the wrist that sends a thin flame shooting in the other boy's direction; Sokka flings himself out of the way and ends up sprawled on the ground.
"Hey, uncool." Sokka stands up and gives him a baleful look. There are leaves in his hair. Zuko laughs, and he makes sure that it's not a cruel laugh, but Sokka narrows his eyes and then leaps at him with surprising speed.
Fifteen minutes and one extremely dirty leaf-fight later, Sokka has mud in his hair and a bruise on his chin and doesn't look so damn symmetrical any more.
oh man, I suck at non-canon ships for this fandom
Zuko is about to resurrect and redirect his cutting retort when Sokka grabs his arm. "She means it," he mutters. "Do you really want to wake up sopping wet and freezing? Come on."
"Let go of me," Zuko mutters in return, shaking his hand off, but he follows Sokka until they're in the clearing they were gathering wood in earlier. "Now what? Are we supposed to talk?"
"We could make out," Sokka suggests.
To his own sheer horror, Zuko almost agrees out of curiosity, before he works out that Sokka was joking. This whole traitor-to-his-blood-and-country thing sucks. He misses his uncle. He misses Mai. He wishes Sokka was not so obnoxiously good at things like having a normal family and a sane sister, and talking to girls, and just standing there with his stupid, handsome, unscarred face. Sokka is probably a really good kisser. The bastard.
"Ha ha," he says scathingly, and gives a flick of the wrist that sends a thin flame shooting in the other boy's direction; Sokka flings himself out of the way and ends up sprawled on the ground.
"Hey, uncool." Sokka stands up and gives him a baleful look. There are leaves in his hair. Zuko laughs, and he makes sure that it's not a cruel laugh, but Sokka narrows his eyes and then leaps at him with surprising speed.
Fifteen minutes and one extremely dirty leaf-fight later, Sokka has mud in his hair and a bruise on his chin and doesn't look so damn symmetrical any more.
Zuko smiles and holds out his hand. "Truce?"