Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Legend of Korra.
Author's Notes: 11/7/14. It's been over a year, I know! Thank you, everyone, for your endless patience and support! Since my last chapter update, I've started grad school, ran my first marathon, celebrated a 5-year anniversary, rock-climbed in Utah, and so much more. I really appreciate your patience!

To this day, I have still not watched Book 2 or Book 3 (nor do I have any plans to watch them, except perhaps, the few episodes concerning the backstory of Wan), and during those seasons my Tahnorra-inspiration inevitably faded. (I got caught up in other ships, fandoms, and WIPs-some of which are currently going on lengths of over 200,000 words.) I have, however, been watching Book 4. I won't voice my opinions on it here (positive or negative), but I will say that all of my Tahnorra feels have come HURTLING BACK. (If you are interested in hearing what I have to say, feel free to message me via tumblr!)

Also: I truly can't actually handle FFNET anymore. I've gotten so spoiled with the creative liberties that AO3 allows me, and FFNET just totally feels so limiting in comparison. (I wrote most of this on a google doc, and I was so angry when I uploaded it into the FFNET Doc Manager, because I'd honestly forgotten about so many of the constraints. So much of my intended formatting is just not technically possible here.) So I'll continue to post here, but only for consistency's sake. All new fics, however, are at my AO3 account. (Including my finally complete Tahnorra college!AU one-shot.)

Thank you for sticking with me!

Musical Inspiration: Definitely had to go back a few years in time... One of my favorite songs from around the time that I started writing the break the ice series was "Make This Go On Forever" by Snow Patrol.

Beta'd by ebonyquill.

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ii

The tunnels are suspiciously quiet tonight.

Mako is warm at her side, gesturing that the coast is clear. Light, swift steps—and then they are beyond the reach of Equalist territory, nothing more than silent, deadly shadows along the city's underground walls.

It's been three days.

Three days, and Mako is losing his patience.

And, to be honest—

So is Korra.

She'd almost been expecting something like this, but it's still a bit of a surprise, when Mako's warm hand wraps itself her arm in the dark secluded caverns of the city's underbelly, midway between Equalist territory and Gommu's camp.

She can't keep avoiding him.

And he tells her so.

"Korra, stop," he whispers, then dares to remove his mask. "We need to talk about this."

Her mask stays on, at least for the time being. The soft brush of her voice is lost in synthetic fibers, which is good, because the echo of this place scares her in a way she doesn't understand, and—truthfully—she hasn't used her voice very much over the last few days, anyway.

"What part?" she asks softly, point-blank, too frustrated to play dumb. He falters for a moment, obviously not expecting her to be so cooperative, but his eyes are hard with concern and genuine care, and it's almost too easy to remember why she started liking him so damn much in the first place.

"This isn't our only option, you know," he reminds her quietly, eyes urgent. "We don't have to play this game—Gommu's camp has enough resources without Tahno's help, and we already have the suits. We don't have to include him in any more plans."

Korra considers this. It's hard to think, though, with the smell of the mask on her, so she removes the choking thing from her face, and longs for the moment when she can finally burn it. The stale, sickly air that smacks her is hardly a relief, but anything is better than those loathsome masks.

She still has nightmares about them, of course.

She's just learned to be quieter when she wakes.

"Unless you think he'd double-cross you, after all."

Korra's eyes reach up to meet his, a fresh bite already on her tongue. But Mako doesn't know—doesn't know the true reason why Korra was so affected by the sight of their once-rival standing tall and lean in the enemy's uniform. Mako has no idea what passed between them, in those few moments when Korra addressed him as the asset—ally?—he was, the cold fear that raked down her spine at the thought of him in combat without his bending, the memory of long fingers bruising warm, welcome patterns down her sides. Mako doesn't know Tahno, and he sure as hell doesn't have a right to say shit about him. Mako is quick to accuse him, hadn't known that Tahno was spending his time as an Equalist spy.

But then again, neither had Korra.

"No," she whispered, after a long moment. Mako was visibly spun with nervous energy, and Korra chanced a deep breath of putrid, suffocating air to ground herself. "We don't have to worry about that."

"Korra," he insists, that same stupid voice that he uses when he's trying to reason with someone without being condescending. It doesn't really work, but she's too tired for this kind of shit. And she's pretty much used to it by now, anyway. He knows that it doesn't work on her.

Which is why he probably sighs—half-defeat, half-exasperation—and says, "Fine. But we've gotta figure something out, because we can't all go on like this for much longer. We're already on edge enough as it is."

Korra says nothing—only takes the moment as an opportunity to examine his face. He looks tired. He looks so tired, and stressed, and so worried, and she wonders if the same is all reflected on her own face, strained and subdued and fucking sick and tired of waiting around. No matter how important it is. No matter if it's necessary.

She knows that now.

"It's gonna be okay," Korra says suddenly, quiet and tight. "You know?"

Mako looks down at her, stunned and lips parted, and Korra vaguely wonders at how this conversation has spun so quickly around because she's faintly certain that the words of comfort she'd just offered were precisely what Mako had set out to provide in the first place. Neither of them seem quite sure what to make of it now.

"Just as long as you do," Mako quietly replies, eyes burning, and underneath the words, she hears so much more.

She has the stupidest desire to kiss him.

Korra turns her head away, before her impulsivity can get the best of her. This is not what they're supposed to be doing. (This is exactly why Asami has every right to be suspicious.) She may still have feelings for Mako, but there are too many lines and too many walls and, honestly, what does she even know about him?

She doesn't think about Tahno, probably on his way back to camp, with his sharp eyes and careful reticence, foreign and unfamiliar and distant, that sinking feeling like a ball of lead in her gut. She hasn't seen him in at least a day, and even then, it's only been once or twice that she's looked him in the eye.

It hurts too much.

Strangely enough, the infiltration of the Equalist army is probably the smoothest part of Korra's life right now.

Bolin's connection had come through and, between Gommu's generous help and Tahno's careful assistance, they were ready to start putting a few stolen suits to good use in no time. It wasn't a difficult decision, choosing Mako to be the one to come with her on the first journey through the tunnel's labyrinth, and since then, Korra hasn't had any reason to reconsider her choice.

Until, perhaps, half an hour ago.

Korra's mind is still swimming with uncertainty when they cross over the threshold into Gommu's campsite, tall buildings draped by wide tarps and raggedy cloaks. She knows that she wouldn't have kissed Mako—she wouldn't have, not with everything at stake—but she can still feel the force of the pull, that undeniable urge, and something tells her that it's written all over her face.

Which is why she wears the mask all the way back to the bonfire.

Asami and Bolin are there, and Asami is teaching him how to disable a chi-blocker by finding a trigger point in the wearer's wrist. Bolin looks dubious, and Asami is smiling at his confusion, and then she looks up as the two of them approach, and a cloud passes over her eyes. Bolin appears distinctly more pleased to see them... but only marginally.

"Any news?" he asks, expecting the worst.

Mako pulls off his mask with a shake of his hair, and Korra slowly follows suit. He answers, and Korra doesn't feel the need to offer any further explanation; she may be a pretty persuasive speaker, but Mako has always been better at laying down the facts.

"Any word from Tahno?" she asks, as soon as he's done. The faster the attention was off of their reconnaissance trip, the better.

"Actually, yeah," Asami answered, and Korra notices the way she trains her eyes carefully onto the small screw she's twisting, focused and intense. Something tightens in her chest, harsh and cold, when Asami easily remarks, "He got back about an hour ago. You can ask him, yourself."

Her stomach churns while Mako groans. "Just our fuckin' luck," he mutters, then ignores Asami's glare. "So where the hell is he?"

"He's gone to the stock room, but he'll be back in a few. He's delivering some of the food he snuck for Gommu."

"Is it poisoned?"

Korra turns to scold him, but Asami beats her to it; she doesn't even have the heart to keep up the scowl on her face while Asami is busy defending Tahno, because as Asami spouts off a number of reasons as to why Mako should essentially back the fuck off, Korra realizes that she can't muster up a single argument. She has a thousand of them—or did, once.

But she's very, very tired.

(And the world feels very, very heavy.)

"We should discuss his information as soon as he gets back," Korra announces suddenly, interrupting this newest spat. They're looking at her with wide, surprised eyes when she says, "I'll be meditating until then."

Or pretending to, anyway.

It hadn't taken long for Korra to realize that even if she sucked at actually communicating with the spirit world, people were sure as hell a lot less likely to try to talk to her when she looked like she was about to speak with some spirits, or something.

And when she is eventually summoned back an hour later by an apologetic-looking Bolin, Korra feels slightly more prepared to face the sight of a ragged-looking Tahno at one of the logs around the pit, leaning his pointy elbows onto the table of his knees and bending towards the crackling fire. Mako is sitting directly across from him, grim and severe as ever, and Asami is seated between them, looking strangely proud and unyielding and pleased—a subdued sort of delight, far different than the way Korra had seen her over the last day or so. Tahno had been staring into the fire, seemingly having finished speaking, and both Asami and Mako were staring at him, their expressions worlds apart.

They look up when Bolin arrives with Korra.

Korra looks to Asami first, greeting her with a nod, even as her heart begins to pound madly in her chest. She can feel Mako's eyes burning into her, so she regards him next, and she sees the concern he's reaching out to her, the promise that he's there for her, the anger on her behalf, and she holds it for a full second, accepting his loyalty, then slowly shifts her gaze.

His eyes are a lot colder than she remembers.

"Tahno," she nods in recognition. "You have news?"

It's cold, and it's stiff, and it's all wrong, it's so very, very, very wrong. His face is impassive; empty, save for the imperceptible downward turn of his lips, the slight clench to his jaw. (Why haven't we said anything? Why doesn't anyone know the truth?) Flashes of pale skin and hot open mouths and cool, white sheets filter into her mind, floating dangerously behind her eyes, but her gaze does not break nor bend nor falter, and her hands are clenched around her crossed arms the same way they would be on any other day, in any other hell-hole refugee camp.

(Why aren't we fixing this?)

His voice curls in her gut, warm and smooth and so familiar, and Korra is horrified at the sudden, ill-timed urge to cry. She swallows when he looks away towards the fire, talking about shipment dates and holding cells, and is desperately fighting to keep herself together when he drops the news about Beifong and everything else comes crashing down.

Tenzin and his family are safe, but at what cost?

(Tahno. The rest of the Wolfbats. Lightning Bolt Zolt and so many others.

And now—Beifong.)

Fuck.

Korra lifts her eyes from the flames, and finds Tahno staring back at her, expectantly.

Bites down the cold shock of fear that rips into her, then accidentally remembers the last time she saw him, in the darkness of camp two nights before. He'd handed off the suits, then left, disappearing into the night without another word, and her punctured heart had squeezed out whatever hope was left of it.

With a deep sigh, Korra lowers herself down onto the seat across from Asami, and feels only slightly better when Bolin does the same. It's good to have him close by—his solid presence, sturdy and comforting—but it doesn't hide Mako's indescribable heat, or Asami's inexplicable light, or Tahno's quiet, snide, reluctant resignation.

She sits rather close to him at the fire, if only so she doesn't have to look at him.

He never stays for very long.

Asami explained to her, once or twice on that first day, what kind of alibi he was supplying his area leader with, but Korra admittedly hadn't heard it. She'd been distracted by the way Asami said his name.

By the way she'd touched him, in small doses, in small and daring gestures, when he'd arrived. And again—when he'd inevitably left.

He hadn't seemed to mind.

A full week had passed in the tunnels, news of riots and rage flooding the streets and the dank world below them, and Korra still isn't entirely sure she knows what's happened. (When did they stop talking? At what point, exactly, had they decided to treat each other like strangers? Who started it?) Even Korra didn't know, for sure.

But somewhere along the line, Tahno and Korra had stopped being whatever it was they'd been before, and reluctantly become something else.

And one thing is becoming increasingly clear: she'd missed something, through the cracks, because when she'd not been looking—when she'd not been around—Asami had slipped into the picture. (How long had Asami known? Just how long had he kept this from her?) Korra sees it in the way Tahno and Asami speak to one another—a familiar rapport, covert banter and inside understandings—and she sees it in their shared looks, and mirrored movements, and the always-respectable distance between them—which means nothing, absolutely nothing, because they are always the one the other seeks out first, always—and through it all, it is increasingly, blindingly clear that Korra has been a fool.

A fool.

He should be getting back soon, but he is loathe to break away.

Not without seeing her first.

He's only come on a whim—a basic, stupid urge that goes against his every instinct, his every carefully-planned strategy. He disguises it as a delivery, comes loaded with a few choice leaves at Gommu's less-than-legal request, and sticks around far longer than he has to. Far longer than he should.

Sato greets him as usual—a hero's welcome, he thinks once, absurdly, even if she's quiet about it—and he responds as usual to her warm smiles with cold snark and a starting kind of feeling in his chest, and then—growing unease. Sato is an ally and, quite frankly, pretty much the only one he's got. He can't lose her.

It's in the second week of their little facade that he arrives while the Avatar is away, business as usual, and Sato is looking particularly worse for wear. Tahno won't pretend to know what happens at camp while he's gone, but it's getting a little harder every day to pretend that he doesn't care.

What happens at camp, that is.

Korra may not want to face him just yet, which is fine—which may be a load of bullshit because she—she—has done so many more reckless things than he could ever hope to strive for, and even though he hadn't told her that he'd joined the Equalist regime as an underground spy, even if he'd lied about it, then—well. It's not the same. He's certain that she's done something just as unforgivable.

Tahno stares at the empty archway to the cavernous tunnels and convinces himself, if not worse.

But nothing comes to mind.

Tahno wants to spar.

Asami, of course, refuses to give into his ridiculous whims.

It's almost been an hour since he's arrived—after no sign of him for three days; three—and she knows that he won't be able to stay for much longer. The Equalists stopped tailing him after the first week or two, reluctantly convinced that the truth of his claims held some bite, but that doesn't mean that Tahno is going to take his chances. Or, at least, not too many of them.

"You can stop staring at the tunnels," she says finally, glancing up from the work in her lap. It's meant to be lighter than the way it comes out, and maybe with a lilt of teasing, but she can detect the subtle trace of something in her tone, even if he can't. It's the same something that makes her chest ache, each and every day. "They won't be back until nightfall."

She notices the stiffening of his shoulders, even if he thinks she can't. (Or maybe that's the point now. Who cares if she sees? What else has he left to hide?) He's irritated, but not with her, and Asami slowly drags her eyes back to the chi-blocker resting on her thighs, and continues her work.

"You seem to be handling this well," he remarks not too long afterward, in that offhand way that shouldn't get under her skin. It seems that not even a couple of days separated by the maze of the tunnels were enough to make her feelings disappear, and Asami is not sure what else she can try.

"Handling what?" she asks dryly, absently, squinting as she inspects the fine-wiring surrounding the core of her chi-blocker's reactor, which rests at the very center of the glove's palm. (It has not escaped her notice, the way the surge of electricity seems to emerge from the very lines on her hand themselves, creases of fate and life and heart laid meaninglessly across her palm; she's wondered if her father had intended this, then dismissed the thought, again and again. She had no way of knowing what her father intended, anymore.)

It takes Asami a moment to realize that Tahno is watching her.

The quirk of his lips is playful, but his eyes are sharp and serious. "You can't honestly tell me that it doesn't bother you the least bit," he begins, tone lilting and knowing in all the worst ways. (Through firsthand experience—just another similarity they shared, one of the many that crept into her consciousness late at night when she could not sleep.)

"What doesn't?" she sighs, even though she should know better than to humor him, especially when she is trying to—

"The way she's doled it out," Tahno shrugs casually, though Asami would never mistake it for indifference. "You and me, here, doing busy work while they're out there. Doing reconnaissance."

A steel edge lends itself to her voice, while Asami continues to work and says, "I'd really rather not see him right now," then grunts with effort as her screwdriver slips. She readjusts it slowly, careful not to be careless. "And besides," she adds seriously, keeping her eyes trained on her work. "Korra knows this team best. If this is what she thinks will work, then I don't see why we shouldn't let her decide who is forced to endure whom."

Tahno seems to find this amusing. He laughs and crosses his arms and leans against the wall before her, infecting her space—her head—as he has taken to doing so recently, and then derisively mutters, "Nothing like a lover scorned, eh?"

After days worth of trying, her patience finally snaps. "Shove it, Tahno," Asami glares at him.

But only his lips smile, dry and bitter, and she retreats.

"Actually," he quietly laughs, and Asami would never, ever mistake it for indifference. "Actually... I think I was talking about me."

Slowly, like fizzling sparks gone astray, the dots begin to connect.

He isn't looking at her when she turns to face him, drags her gaze across the crusted dirt to find his eyes, and at first, all she finds is laughter dipped cruelly into the line of his smirk.Coward, she thinks, for avoiding her gaze; liar, she thinks, because there must be a reason; bastard, she thinks, as a hand clamps around her heart. And then he turns to look at her, with a smirk that isn't truly a smirk at all, and the cutting words slowly fade away, burned by curiosity and nausea and dread.

Well.

All but the last, perhaps.

Asami's eyes harden, crystallize with understanding. She briefly considers resuming the polishing of the plates embedded into her chi-blocker, then decides that she wants to see his face; honesty is a rare gift, from Tahno.

Lit by a sudden fire thrumming in her heart, Asami watches him closely.

She wants to see how much he will give.

There is another brief moment in which the words spin themselves on her tongue, and her lashes flutter as they slip into place. Asami is aware that there is nothing around but the faint sounds of meager, humble life in the distance, but it sounds so soft, so hushed.

"You were close to Korra," she says quietly, with a voice that is even—even though the world has tilted. She half-expects him to flinch, perhaps, but he doesn't, and she wonders if that is from his Equalist training, or his years in the ring. (She almost doesn't add it, but has to, in the end, if only to see if his true mask might fall away.) "Before," she whispers, and there it is.

It slips.

The quick line of tension in his jaw. His neck. The tendons and cords and the cut of him, strained and weathered and battered, by hell and everything else. There is a chuckle from him, wry and dry, and Asami doesn't feel her heart dropping until it's already there, at the bottom, and with it—a shred of something else she cannot name.

"How close?" she whispers, though she can't recall the feeling they make on her lips, the way they formed in her throat. Her own body feels heavy, cold like stone, and Tahno's just a lively corpse, a broken shell with a mask, a bitter end with a gaping soul—a smirk, to cover a wounded man's thirst for revenge. (Broken body, broken soul, broken heart.)

Tahno does not answer—honesty, in silence—and Asami Sato reminds herself that her heart has been broken before.

(She should have known
better.)

Her eyes find the chi-blocker in her hand; gleaming in the lamplight, smooth in its precision, misleading in its complexity. Such power, in the palm of her hands.

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(She mended it
once.

She could do it
again.)

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These days, the only one
she could truly rely on (to fix anything)
was herself.

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And
maybe—

Someone else could rely on her, too.

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