Disclaimer: AtLA does not belong to me, and I make no profit from the telling of this tale.

A/N: warning for angst. Inspired by another piece, linked on my tumblr. Title from Florence + the Machine's "Blinding".

Please review!

voice: [vois] a range of such sounds distinctive to one person

Katara is stirred awake by voices in the hall.

Still in the throes of sleep, Katara swings an arm over to Zuko's side of the bed, hoping to tug him closer. But, of course, he isn't there; one of the voices she can hear through the thick fog of drowsiness is undeniably his.

Katara turns back onto her side and screws her eyes shut, hoping to go back to sleep. But the bed is too chilly without Zuko, and she's going to have to fetch either him or her space heater if she wants to go back to sleep. Still she lingers, feeling too lethargic to get up. Eventually a combination of curiosity and annoyance causes her to kick back her covers and stagger to her feet, grumbling about the disadvantages of getting used to sleeping next to a firebender.

She approaches the bedroom door, curious as to the identity of their late night visitor. The door falls open quietly. Katara steps out to the small gap of space, and peeks.

The first thing she sees is the line of Zuko's back. He's wearing a dark, crisp button down, wrinkled from the day's work, as well as dark slacks. The matching suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair. This means he never got into bed. Katara wonders at this; Zuko's the type to sleep early and wake up early. As he always says, he's "rising with the sun". Either he couldn't sleep for some reason, or he was expecting the visitor. She'd have to ask him about it later.

Zuko stands with his back to her, rummaging for something in their kitchen cabinets. Even in the dim light, Katara can see the tense line of his shoulders- and she wants to rub it away, force the stress out of his skin, run her water-gloved hands over the knotted muscles. Zuko turns, two glasses in his hands, and the tightness of his jaw alarms Katara- that is, until she glimpses his visitor.

It's Azula, sitting on their quaint round kitchen table, one heeled foot over the other. Katara recoils before she can catch the knee-jerk reaction. But then again, Azula hasn't made her life easy; and more importantly, she hasn't made Zuko's life easy. Zuko's father, Ozai, was already a shabby excuse for a parent, prone to favoritism and verbal abuse and a general inclination towards crushing Zuko's spirit. Zuko was a mess when he walked into Katara's life, and from what she heard and observed, Azula hadn't made it easier for him. Father and sister worked towards slowly chipping away at what made Zuko whole, and Katara will never quite forgive them for that.

And Azula was the reason that, after Zuko wasted years in business school and worked tirelessly to move up in the Prince corporate ladder (all to gain the approval of his father), all of his efforts went to waste. Zuko admitted to Katara that he didn't want to tell his father too much about her until they met: "You don't know him, Katara, and trust me, it wouldn't help. You know I love what you do, but he judges really quickly, and once he makes a decision he never goes back from it… but if he meets you first, he'll realize how amazing you are, and he won't care about anything else."

But Azula had gone ahead and told Ozai, in a scandalous whisper, that Katara was a "penniless artist, Father, can you believe it? And a waterbender."

Ozai had refused point blank to meet her. And while this had its benefits, for Zuko decided right then and there that he didn't give a damn what his father thought anymore, it severed his relationship with the only family he had.

Until now, that is.

Azula sits in the kitchen as though she belongs there, her back rim-rod straight in her chair. But nothing less would be Azula; both Prince children thought themselves entitled to everything, and while Zuko was humbled significantly over the last few years, nobody made such an effort with Azula. She looks as impeccable as ever, blouse and pencil skirt and heeled boots, but there's something about her that's off. Maybe it's the fact that her usual sneer seems to be absent.

Katara itches to discover the reason for Azula's random reappearance, her skin almost burning with curiosity. But, for some reason- perhaps to let Zuko take as much as he can from this odd reunion- she stays where she is.

Zuko hands Azula the glasses, and Azula draws a long-necked bottle from her designer purse. She pours each of them a finger from what looks like Scotch to Katara. They both reach for their glasses simultaneously, and Zuko downs his in one alarming sip. He thrusts it back at Azula, and she takes the gesture for what it is, pouring him a second glass.

In the semi-darkness and the silence, they sit, the alcohol the only link between them.

This continues for so long it's maddening. They drink without words, the tension between them so thick Katara can actually see it, and when Azula finally speaks it's like a slap of cold water.

"Sad, isn't it?"

Katara watches Zuko look into his sister's face, comprehension dawning on his. Still, he tips the Scotch back into his mouth and rasps, "What?"

"How tough it had to get to bring us together," she says.

Katara frowns when Zuko offers up no further question, no more debate. He must know what she is referring to. Katara is half-tempted to make her presence known, to walk into the room and eventually ask Zuko what Azula was talking about, maybe when her back is turned.

She decides against it. It's rare for Zuko to have moments of connection with his family, and she doesn't want to ruin it for him. After a moment, she sidles back to bed. Zuko will tell her tomorrow, anyway.

When she awakens, it is (for the second time) in an empty bed.

Grumbling, Katara sits up and locates the familiar sound of the shower. "Is this going to be a habit?" she shouts. "Because I'm seriously starting to regret getting a place with you if all it means is that I get to sleep alone."

She gets no answer, but she's sure Zuko is chuckling to himself in the shower.

"I'll start breakfast," she says, getting out of bed. She pauses in the bathroom to rinse the sleep out of her eyes and mouth (and, she'll admit it, she eyes the frosted glass of the shower doors and especially Zuko's silhouette though them, that unfocused expanse of pale skin- considers hopping in, but decides against it, because she may work from home and have all the leisure in the world, but Zuko's going to be late).

"Honestly," she mumbles to herself as she moves to the kitchen. "Such a considerate girlfriend."

She stops halfway there, distracted by the open door of her studio. She walks in. Despite the open door, which means Zuko probably came in here to explore, everything is in its place. Katara moves through the tables and the stands, appreciating the sun that shines through the wide window. She picked this room specifically for the sun, she remembers. "Such excellent lighting," she'd told Zuko, and he'd called her out on her bullshit by saying that she was a sculptor, not a painter, and didn't need good lighting. She retorted by telling him to get back to her once he'd graduated from art school, and he'd taken another tactic by pressing his face into the crook of her neck and telling her that he'd meant for this room to be the master bedroom, and Katara had gone all weak in the knees.

A week later, she found all her boxes and knives and wood carvers and modeling wax and tubs of plaster moved into the room. "I just want you to be happy," Zuko had said, looking endearingly flustered and pink around the ears.

Katara drifts through the room, drinking in the sunlight and the memories, and doesn't take note of the passage of time until the sound of the kettle leads her to the kitchen.

"Whoops, sorry," Katara apologizes on her way in. "Got distracted."

She takes a seat at the table, watching Zuko scramble eggs. There is something soothing about watching a man like Zuko, who looks like he should always be in a suit or on a mission or in the midst of heated speech, do something as domestic as cooking. Katara settles into her chair, her arms wrapped around one of her legs, her chin resting on her knee.

She watches him scoop his eggs into a plate, watches him miss some, watches his shoulders slump in defeat before gathering his wits and cleaning up the mess.

Oh, I love him.

Zuko doesn't offer her a plate, and Katara is glad for it. He knows she will probably go back to sleep after he leaves, and if she eats breakfast than she won't be able to. So they sit in companionable silence. Katara loves this, loves that she can just sit quietly with him and still be struck by sudden adoration for him. But then again, almost everything Zuko does is either awkward or endearing. It's hard not to love a man like that.

Before Zuko leaves, he turns one of her tapes on.

"No," Katara groans, exaggerating it by covering her face. "Now I'll never be able to get back to sleep."

But Zuko's soft smile doesn't waver, and Katara realizes he's smiling for himself, not for her. This causes something to swell in her chest- since when does Zuko smile when it isn't for someone else's benefit? She realizes it's because of her tape and smiles too. That was the purpose of it, after all.

As he passes his hand grazes her shoulder. Katara's smile stretches, and she reaches up to rub the spot as Zuko collects his keys and briefcase and makes to leave for work.

At the door, he stops, and casts her grin with soft, unfocused eyes.

Katara finds Zuko listening to the tapes.

It's the first one she ever made for him, she thinks- she sounds staggeringly young in it. She remembers the person she was, a political science major who didn't know she was going to switch over to art, who was falling in love with a guy who was exciting and misunderstood and every kind of wonderful, a guy who didn't quite know who he was, either.

"This is probably going to seem ridiculous to you." The young Katara on the tape giggles. "I mean- who wants to just listen to someone drone on and on? Then again, maybe you would. You're kind of a weirdo."

Katara watches Zuko from the doorway of the room. He doesn't seem to realize she's there. He's staring at the opposite wall, listening intently.

"I just hope I don't stop, though. No matter how stupid I think it is or how busy I get. The artist in me might do that, I think- artistic temperament at all. But Zuko, I'm serious, if I stop recording these tapes you have to force me to continue."

Katara smiles to herself, thinking of the dozens of other tapes she recorded. She never did stop. She thinks she may have recorded seventy tapes, maybe more.

"God, I keep forgetting this is the first tape. I'm babbling on! I should say something noteworthy." Young Katara gives a great pause. "Hmm. How we met? At your first Benders' convention, and like my fifth. You were such a newbie, unused to the whole secrecy element of it all- you got pissed at some jerk and almost took your little sparring session into the street, and I stopped you. Remember? He was a really mediocre earthbender."

Katara remembers. She remembers how Zuko had struck something in her from the first, something about the definitive line of his jaw or the molten gold of his eyes.

"Maybe I should talk about how it's your birthday party, later. This is part of your gift. Wanna hear my plans?"

Young Katara goes on for a long stretch of time, but this doesn't seem to bother Zuko. She catches sight of the box of tapes in the corner, the edges and corners frayed.

"I've always wanted to do this for someone," the Katara on the tape says, voice suddenly gone soft. "I've always wanted to… trust someone, like this. Thank you for that."

Zuko hits the button that silences her, and sits motionless for quite some time.

Zuko trains before dinner.

Katara listens to his grunts and the crackle of fire from the top of the stairs. She's tempted to join him- it's been a while since she's practiced her waterbending. She's just been feeling so lethargic lately, and she feels that way now. Eventually she decides to join him anyway, because she knows Zuko hates training indoors and company will make it better. Besides- she can picture him shirtless, as he always is when training, the sharp lines of his body, shiny with sweat.

She snags a sketchbook from her studio before she goes, startled when she finds the pages blank.

Zuko doesn't only cook breakfast, he's very proficient at cooking dinner as well.

As Katara watches him move about the kitchen, she remembers the conversation that began this arrangement.

"I'm simply too busy," Katara had claimed self-importantly as they sorted their cutlery into drawers, giddy with the new reality of owning a home together. "I'm a full-time artist, and I simply must leave the doors open to the muses. I can't be dragged down by such a mundane chore as cooking every day."

She was joking, of course; but later, as they lay on their mattress on the floor after thoroughly breaking it in, she mentioned it again. "Every other night. Three times a week, at least. And not for anything except that I like your cooking. It's always spicy."

And Zuko had surprised her, just as he had with the studio, by cooking almost every day. Even when Katara volunteered her services Zuko declined them- and at first she'd thought he was really just trying to make things as easy as he could for her, in that stupid obsessive extreme (lovely) way of his. But later, when Katara was washing the dishes, he admitted that he just didn't like her cooking- too bland- and Katara bended soapy water from the sink to splash into his face, and he made a big fuss then laughed, then tugged at her shirt and eventually pulled it over her head no matter how hard she squirmed, and then, really, Katara couldn't continue doing the dishes shirtless.

He stands now freshly showered at the kitchen counter, dicing whole tomatoes for his pasta sauce. Katara is content to watch him, struck by the same warmth she felt in the morning.

Her peace of mind is disrupted by the sound of the dripping faucet. Katara looks at it, puzzled. Why does it remind her of something? She bites her lip, trying to remember what it is through the mist and the fog, and she thinks she may just have it when-

-Zuko places a plate in front of her, and Katara abandons the mad train of thought and thanks him instead.

After dinner, they sit in the living room. Zuko brings his briefcase, drawing reports and files out of it, and Katara reaches for her copy of Dostoyevsky from the coffee table. Zuko's just about settled in and her arm is outstretched for her book when the doorbell rings.

"Uncle," Katara hears Zuko say, surprise evident in his voice. "And- Mai."

"Thanks for the warm welcome," Mai says, her voice clearer as she moves to the kitchen. She wrinkles her nose. "This place is a pigsty, Zuko."

"I've seen your and Ty Lee's place, and it's worse," Zuko retorts. "What are you two doing here?"

"Just dropping by," Iroh says, voice mellow as always. "I can't stay long. Just checking up on you."

"I'm fine." There's a defensive edge to Zuko's voice, out of place considering that Iroh didn't seem to be implying anything.

"Hey, maybe he is, Iroh." Mai gestures to the full sink. "Have you been cooking?"

"Yes," Zuko says.

"No more takeout. That's a good sign…" Mai seems to catch herself mid-thought as she eyes the dishes more critically. "Is that… did you have guests over, Zuko?"

"No," Zuko says, and Mai's eyes immediately narrow.

"Mai," Iroh says warningly, as Mai's mouth opens. She closes it with a sharp clack of teeth. Zuko's hands clench and unclench into fists at his sides, and oh no, that can't be good.

"Well, it's good to see you're fine, son." Iroh's voice is weak, without conviction. "I have to go. I'll see you soon."

As soon as Iroh's out the door, Mai turns on Zuko. "It hurts him to see you like this. He can't even be in your company for five minutes."

"Why'd you bring him, then?" Zuko seethes.

Mai looks astonished. "You love your uncle," she says. "And someone- someone has to try to fix things. Maybe he's the solution."

Zuko shrugs. Mai worries her lips and looks at Zuko through her lashes, as though considering something.

"Aang misses you," she finally says. "He's worried about you."

"I don't want to talk about him," Zuko says sharply.

"Okay- okay." Mai holds up her hands, placating. She sheds her dark red scarf and moves to enter the living room. Zuko holds out an arm to block her. "No."

Mai looks at him with raised eyebrows- and maybe Katara's imagining it, but she looks slightly hurt.

Zuko must have noticed it too because he immediately makes amends. "I'm working in there. That's all. You caught me in a bad time."

"It seems that's all I've been doing for two years," Mai mutters. "When is it going to be a good time, Zuko?"

Zuko stuffs his hands in his pockets and mutters something Katara doesn't hear.

Mai reaches for Zuko's face, cups the ruined cheek with her hand. "I'm here for you, alright?"

He nods, and Mai leaves without saying anything else.

Zuko wanders into the living room slowly, dazed almost. Katara rushes over to him.

"What was that?" She wraps her arms around his shoulders when he says nothing, trying to comfort him in any way she can. "Are you okay?"

But Zuko only buries his face in his hands, and Katara feels something fracture between them, and she wishes, impossibly, that they could go back.

That night, as they lay in bed, she turns over and presses a kiss to his scar.

Katara catches Zuko listening to the tapes.

This time, it's one that recounts a particularly romantic date Zuko had planned but became irreparably botched, as the weather took a bad turn and the restaurant lost their reservation and Zuko got a speeding ticket and drove over a pothole and blew out one of his tires.

"Oh spirits… oh Spirits, I'm still wet! You didn't want me to stand in the rain, but you insisted on standing out there to stop any passing cars for help, like some kind of stupid hero… and all that did was ruin your cell phone! And I forgot to mention, you didn't have a spare. Idiot. Wish one of us was a tirebender… oh wait, an airbender could have done it! Bended air back into the tire! We should bring Aang with us on the rest of our dates. Honestly, you should have had the foresight to invite him in case we needed our tires serviced-"

A shriek cuts off the monologue. "Zuko! Get out of here, I'm recording."

"No," Zuko-on-the-tape says simply. "I have Chinese food."

"Oh, and cookies? Please have cookies."

"I have cookies." Katara almost laughs- she can practically hear Zuko rolling his eyes.

A squeal and a bang as something or another is dropped, and then a laugh from Zuko, and then a low groan that seems ripped from his throat…

Katara's cheek colors as the recording gives way to moans and whimpers and shuddery sighs. She wonders, when they're through, what will be left of them.

The week brings an odd series of visitors.

Sokka visits, but seems unwilling to go beyond the door. "I just wanted to thank you for the flowers," he says. "And see how you were doing."

"I'm fine," Zuko says, and the two words sound horribly deadened to Katara. She wants to kiss that tone out of him, to rip it from his throat and cast it as far away as possible.

"Good," Sokka says, though he sounds disbelieving. "I miss hanging out with you, man."

"Yeah."

"Wish things were different."

"Yeah." This time, it's barely a whisper.

"Suki sends flowers," Sokka says, holding up an artful bouquet of ruby red flowers.

"Why?" Zuko's eyes widen in surprise. "It's not my birthday."

Sokka shrugs. "She's... she's trying to cope, too. In her own way."

And so Zuko accepts the flowers with a clumsy sort of grace, setting them on the hall table without a thought.

Aang visits, too.

But this time, he's not greeted with even a lukewarm welcome. Zuko opens the door, glimpses the visitor, and immediately slams it shut in his face.

"Zuko." Katara frowns at this erratic behavior. "Stop being rude. Let him in."

But Zuko ignores her. He ignores, too, Aang pleading through the door.

"Please, Zuko, give me a chance." Aang sounds wrecked. "You… it's been so long, and you've never given me a chance to explain. To apologize. To make it up to you, somehow."

"How the fuck can you make it up to me?" Zuko seethes; and Katara takes a step back, shocked at the venom in his voice, at the way he bares his teeth. "What does that even mean?"

"I'm sorry- I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said it like that, shouldn't have phrased it so stupidly. Spirits. Listen, you don't have to open the door. You don't even have to say anything. Just-"

"No, I don't want you to say anything." Zuko's voice is now cold, calm, just as frightening. "I don't want to listen to you."

"I didn't mean it. I never meant for anyone to get hurt, anything to happen to-"

"Aang." Zuko's voice breaks, and Katara watches him with wide eyes and an open mouth, truly scared now. "Aang, I would really rather not, but if you don't get off my fucking property right now I am going to punch you in the face. And I probably won't stop there."

"Maybe I deserve it." Aang sounds dejected, like defeat settled in his bones, made a home there. "But I loved her too."

Zuko stands still for a long time, visibly trembling, and Katara doesn't expect him to talk when he does. Aang's probably left.

"She was always protecting you," Zuko says, a muscle in his jaw jumping, and Katara realizes with a frightening sort of certainty that Zuko is trying not to cry. "And the one time it counted, you were too chickenshit to do the same."

He gets no response, except the tear that slips down Katara's face, unbidden.

"Zukooo!"

Once again, Katara is startled out of sleep by an unknown and not entirely welcome late-night visitor. The banging stops, at least, when Zuko opens the front door.

"Oh, great," comes his weary greeting.

What can only be the unashamed voice of Toph responds. "We're here to bust you out, Sparky. Drinks, all night, on us."

"Hi," comes another voice; Mai. "It was my idea, don't kill the little earthbender. I just brought her so she can help me cart you home if you get too drunk."

"Hey, who's little?"

Toph and Mai's banter is interrupted when Zuko politely declines, but they take none of it, and eventually Zuko bows to Toph's enormous will and quietly changes his clothes and slips out. She thinks it odd that Toph didn't invite her, and even weirder that Zuko didn't. But Zuko was probably trying to be considerate, thinking Katara asleep.

She's about to go back to sleep when a sound reaches her ears; the doorknob rattling, their front door. She swings herself off her bed, listening sharply, raising her arms as the door to the bedroom swings open.

The light flips on, causing her to squint. When she looks again, it's Lu Ten and Yue, carrying several boxes.

"We need to be quick," they say. "Let's get everything and get out."

They separate. Yue heads for the closet, Lu Ten for the drawers. Together they dump her things, Katara's things, into boxes.

"Hey," she protests, incensed. "Hey, those are mine."

They don't listen; if anything, they move at greater speed. Lu Ten finishes loading his box with her socks and bras and panties and moves to the bathroom. He's halfway through dumping her toiletries- a dry toothbrush, a bottle of hair spray, a tub of moisturizer, all looking old and untouched- when Yue lets out a cry.

"What?" Lu Ten abandons his work and rushes to her. "What is it?"

Yue has found the tapes. She blindly sticks one into the player, then gasps anew as Katara's voice fills the room, hands clutching at her chest as though trying to still something. Lu Ten reaches to turn off the player, but Yue grabs his hand, shaking her head silently.

Not a minute has passed before Yue starts to cry violently, sobs wracking her frame. Lu Ten wraps his arms around her, rocks her, the motion soothing and gentle.

Katara watches them and feels her heart break into tiny slivers of glass.

Hours later, they sit, collectively waiting for Zuko.

Lu Ten and Yue sit on one sofa, holding hands, quiet. Yue's face is still slick with tears, her bottom lip trembling when she isn't biting it. Lu Ten's thumb traces small circles over the back of her hand.

Katara sits with them, waiting, feeling like something is about to end.

When Zuko comes in, he takes one look at them- one look around the room, completely devoid of picture frames- and understands.

He lunges for Lu Ten, eyes dark and wild. Lu Ten pushes Yue out of the way, then meets his cousin head on.

The scuffle is short, a blur of motion that ends with Zuko writhing on the floor with Lu Ten sitting on top of him, knees tight on either side of his torso. Yue moves to the ground beside them, crying anew, and takes Zuko's face in her hands.

"Zuko, look at me, Spirits, look at me." Katara watches him bluntly refuse, staring stubbornly at the ceiling as his breath comes in short grunts. "Zuko, we had to do it. We had to do it, don't you understand?"

"We had to do it, Zuko." Lu Ten nods gravely, earning himself a new bought of struggle from Zuko. "It's too late. It's all at our place now."

"Zuko, please, say something…"

"Give… it… back," he forces out through gritted teeth. "Give it all back. I want her stuff back."

"We can't do that, love." Yue's hands are stroking Zuko's face now, short soothing movements. "We can't. You need to move on."

"This isn't a life, Zuko," Lu Ten interjects. "Katara's dead. She's not coming back."

Katara blinks; and suddenly, a rush of images, an abundance of water and a lack of air. Oh.

"It's the harsh truth," Lu Ten continues. "And we all loved her, and we know you loved her more than anything, but you can't live like this."

"She wouldn't want that," Yue intervenes. "She wouldn't want you living this way, barely alive. Life- life is for living, you understand?"

"Katara knew that more than anyone."

"She would have wanted you to be happy." Yue's nails are digging into Zuko's skin, now, leaving little angry half-moons. "Spirits- pull it together, Zuko!"

Katara looks at Zuko, prone on the floor, and feels something within slip away. She never wanted this. She never wanted him to live this horrible parody of a life, holding onto something he's lost until he loses himself. What she did want was to give him happiness- healing, to purify him of all the damage his family had done, smoothing over the cracks with her company, with her love. She wanted to give him children- little Princes, princesses. She wanted to carve a sculpture of him, eventually. She wanted to make more tapes.

I've caused so much harm, she thinks, her hands involuntarily coming up to cover her mouth. I've hurt him.

"Say something," Yue begs.

"I wonder sometimes…" Zuko licks his lips, and his voice is thick when he speaks. "I wonder, sometimes, what I've done wrong, to lose her. I wonder if I can take it back."

"Sweetheart…"

"I barely lived before her. How can I be expected to live after her, now that I've known her?" Zuko swallows through the words, as though they burn him. "How can someone go on in darkness, when they've had a glimpse of the light?"

A tear slips down Katara's cheek. Yue releases Zuko's face to cover her mouth.

"I never stopped listening to her," Zuko says with such vehemence as though swearing before a court. "I never stopped listening to her voice."

Katara aches to touch him. She almost reaches; but she knows, with her newfound realization, she won't be able to. She shouldn't, anyway, she realizes with a cold dread. It wouldn't be fair to him.

"She loved you," Yue says, smiling through her tears. "She loved you, and- you can be proud of that. Live to be proud of that."

When Lu Ten eventually clambers off of Zuko and extends a hand to help his cousin up, Katara takes a step back. When Lu Ten begins to stutter apologies and assurances in a rough voice, Katara takes another. When Yue takes Zuko's hand and leads him to the kitchen, where she puts on a pot of tea, Katara takes a third.

In her mind's eye, she pictures him for one last time. His aristocratic bone structure. The line of his jaw. The line of his scar. The jut of his hipbones. The softness of his eyes. The hardness of his muscle. The uniqueness of his spirit.

With a shaky breath, Katara lets herself drift away.

Zuko records a tape of his own.

I almost drowned today. I thought I saw you.

Without Katara's voice to ground him, Zuko feels unanchored. Loose. And while he doesn't particularly like it, he knows it's the way you're supposed to feel, if you want to let go.