Hodgepodge: ATLA

**Hodgepodge: ATLA  
**_Rasielle_

**ZUTARA 1 **

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**Firelight**

Sleep would take everyone else before him; as an insomniac herself, it took her two nights to notice.

Often, amidst Aang's peaceful breathing and Sokka's healthy snores, it unnerved her to see _him _sit across her on the other side of the fire, eyes fully open, narrow face concentrated, golden irises battling the firelight. His features, they would look sharp. His cheekbones, they'd look high and arrogant. But his eyes, they would look…

Images of what a little Fire Nation boy might look like – smiling, unscarred, running through meadows and shouting as he fell – crossed her mind, and the boy's big golden eyes were full of something that she thought a person like him would've forgotten.

_Wide?_

_But then, _she'd tell herself, usually shifting in her makeshift cot and turning away. _It's only the fire._

And for a few nights, she actually believed it.

---

**Humor**

She didn't know what to make of him.

He was so solemn – _all the time!_ – that it was both painful and disturbing. Pale, scowling, and immovably silent, he ruined good moods, roasted good jokes, and heightened tempers with his derisive snorting.

She didn't know why she expected anything any different.

One afternoon, an hour after the rain had poured and dampened the roads, Katara found her foot caught in the mud, her knees quickly yielding, and her body falling forward. Face flat, the mud muffled her shrieks.

It was only when she heard a peculiar sound behind her – laughter, unfamiliar laughter – that she realized what had been missing.

And she didn't know what to make of him.

---

**Combat**

She spun around, aimed a high kick towards the side of his head, and busied her hands with her Water Whip… it was amazing what two good moves – executed _simultaneously_ – could do. His hand, which had been darted out toward her wrist, intending to snatch at her arms and twist them behind her back – _this had never failed before _– came too close to her whip, and it got caught. He lost his balance, and her kick missed – he was falling, so was she – and in a flurry of pain and curses, they fell together, dumped upon one another in a comical heap.

There was silence, and resisting the urge to simply blast a fireball right through her, Zuko disentangled himself and grunted. 'This is _your_ fault, you know – '

'_MINE?'_ She was up in an instant, and before her, enough water had accumulated to form another whip. 'Who was the one who couldn't get over that stupid arm move, huh? At least _I_ learn from my mistakes – '

'Well, you can't kick!'

And it was easy to see that neither knew _why_ they were fighting, or even how it had come to be. It was all pride. A few words, a shriek or two, and both were up again, shooting fire, flinging icicles, saying in combat what neither could admit in conversation.

After all, this way was much more exciting.

---

**Stray**

He was abandoned, he was dropped, he was… well, perhaps not forgotten. And he was absolutely ready to start anew.

_Perfect._

She knew what she was getting into wasn't simple. She knew it wasn't safe. He'd scratch her, surely, and he'd thrash and fight; he was still so wild and so savage and so fresh. Or, even worse, he might close himself off from her, allowing her _no_ entry.

Well, be that as it may, but she had some idea of how to approach this dilemma. _Be the first to bend_, the saying went, _and when he's not looking, grab him by the collar and drag him down with you._

And it was _always_ what you did with strays. _Always._

---

**Worlds**

Red, flaming, disciplined. Gardens that were dappled with gold flowers and red roses and fruits that smelled like wine. A mother's smile and promise, a father's frosty glare; a little sister who stepped on people's toes and beamed when they called her the 'Evil Incarnate.' An uncle. Guards. Palaces bedecked in tapestries that boasted a long history of domination.

Blue, fluid, carefree. Mounds, hills, mountains of snow, shimmering like some sort of solid white haze. The vague touches of her mother, which felt so faraway; the amused tones of her father, so far from forgotten. The dry wit of a grandmother who didn't expect much from the world, not like she used to. The smell of fish over a fire, soups made with the freshest of meat. Blankets of fur, piled high. Igloos. Ice.

There is no world they can share.

_So they make their own._

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**A/N:** My drabbles may be teh suxxor, but the fact that I'm writing **ONE HUNDRED** should be decent compensation. So _pfft_.

Reviews, please?

**BTW** – I just realized that Jakia has a fic called 'Firelight.' Well, Firelight – one of my first ATLA drabbles – was written and titled before I found out that another fic with a name like that existed. To be safe, I didn't read Jakia's _Firelight_ – although I might, since everything she writes is awesome – so this coincidence is precisely that: a coincidence.

And because I'm hardheaded and very proud that I knew the word 'firelight' – it's like knowing the word 'eventide' – I _refuse_ to change the drabble name. Hmph.


End file.
