tampered | (no subject)

(no subject)

When; The evening of the 28th.
Rating; ~~NC-17~~ PG-13..ish?
Characters; Jet and Iroh
Summary; Iroh saves Jet's ass.
Log; It had been weeks since Jet had burned down the tea shop, and he'd been keeping to himself since then. Squatting in an empty apartment, heading out only at night, staying away from people as best as he could; it only made sense to try to avoid the city as much as possible. Surely the firebenders had rallied the poor saps they had fooled into friendship against him, and surely they were still all pissed and out for his blood.

He remembered the look of unbridled rage on Zuko's face, after all, and had physically felt the flames grow hotter when he had begun taunting the young firebender.

If Jet hadn't been half-mad with hunger and sleeplessness (the damned ticking was getting easier to bear, but still kept him up sometimes, curled on the floor and staring at the wall with bloodshot eyes), he probably wouldn't have fallen for the harpy's trap. If he had had all of his wits about him, he probably wouldn't have been lured into the alleyway by the crooning sounds of a woman in pain, and if he had possessed a better sense of self preservation then, he most likely wouldn't have gone into the alleyway with his swords sheathed.

And, maybe, finally, if he hadn't been so cocky, he would have run instead of trying to fight back.

It was too late for what-ifs, though: all of that had happened, which was exactly how Jet found himself concussed and on the ground, scrambling for a weapon that had clattered to the ground and skidded just out of reach. "Get away from me," he spat, trying to roll toward his sword and feeling his diaphragm and ribs seize. "Do I look like food to you?"

Part of him, in the back of his mind, really hoped he blacked out before the damn harpy actually ate him.

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It seemed like the worst luck to Iroh that just as his tea shop was finally recovering from the fire a few weeks back, the City erupted into apocalyptic chaos. Not being familiar with the finer details of the City's structure and history, he could not claim to understand what was going on, but he knew that monsters were bad and suddenly much more numerous. That was enough.

Though he did not consider himself a hero by any stretch of the imagination, he could not simply stand by while monsters attacked innocent people. Especially when some of those innocent people were his dear custmers. So in his free hours, he patroled the City, as many of the other citizens with powers did, rescuing the people he could find.

He heard shouting from an alleyway, and the familiar cry of the harpy. Without a second thought, he rushed towards it. He saw a young man on the ground and a harpy getting ready for the kill. He let out a roar and a breath of fire, driving the creature back as it cried out in pain. It flew off quickly in search of easier prey.

Iroh hurried to the young man's side. "Are you all right?"

Jet's eyes widened and then narrowed in confusion pain as fire blasted at the harpy and it flew away, and his hand tensed as he twisted his head to look at Iroh.

He needed to cough. He had the feeling that it would hurt and suppressed it.

"You saved me," Jet said, and while it was meant to be a sneer, it came out confused, bewildered. He struggled to right himself to a sitting position, but exhaustion and pain rolled heavy over him and he nearly blacked out. "Why would you do that?! To finish me off yourself? Go ahead and do it, old man, I'm not afraid of you."

Iroh was confused; it took him a moment to recognize Jet through the grime and the pain. Even his voice sounded different. But there was no mistaking those hooked swords, or that false bravado.

Ten years ago, Iroh might have regretted saving the life of someone who had done him so much harm. But he was older and wiser now, and his own slate was far from clean. Though he tensed with instinctive dislike, he knelt down to examine the young man's injuries.

After kicking the hook swords several feet out of reach.

"Surprising as it is, I do not want to kill you," he said. "I only want to see your injuries."

They were not quite as bad as they had seemed at first glance. It seemed that Jet had managed to fight the creature off fairly well himself. But he was clearly exhausted and ill. Iroh wondered if it had anything to do with his disappearance.

"We need to get you to a healer," he said gently. "Can you stand?"

Jet had slammed his head and side against a wall in the fight. He suspected that he had a few cracked ribs, was worried that he had a concussion, but that wasn't really something you said to the enemy. Because he was the enemy, even if he was putting on a pleasant mask, and Jet wanted to spit at him. He just wasn't sure if he could spare the energy to do it.

"I know what you are," he retorted, and his voice was hoarse, cracking slightly. "I know who you are, and I know the sorts of things you do. You don't have any reason to help me, so if you're not going to kill me, just leave me alone." It was meant to come out brave, bold. Daring. If Jet had heard how pitiful and plaintive it actually sounded to anyone's ears but his own, he probably would have went ahead and killed himself then.

He managed to hoist himself into a sitting position, bracing himself hard on the arm that wasn't bleeding, though he did lurch forward slightly in pain.

"I don't need help."

Jet's words had the complete opposite effect than he had intended. They reminded Iroh painfully of Zuko in the early days of their exile. Angry, hurt, confused, lost, desperately trying to bring life back to normal. Rather than pushing the older man away, those words tugged Iroh's heartstrings closer.

He reached out to steady Jet. "I daresay you know my reputation quite well," he said gently. "But you will find that people are full of surprises. And you are in no condition to be moving on your own. Take my arm."

"I don't need your help," Jet insisted, purposefully ignoring the arm as he moved to heave himself to his feet. He'd be fine. He'd sustained worse injuries before, hadn't he? He just needed to grab his swords, find a place to recuperate.

He shot Iroh a pointed look, one that clearly said 'I don't need your pity,' and pushed himself to his feet. He would have managed to look smug, too, if he hadn't fainted from the pain of straightening up, eyes rolling into his skull and his legs buckling under him.

Kids these days.

Fortunately for Jet, Iroh had been expecting something like this to happen and just barely managed to catch him before he hit the ground. Years of battlefield experience had served him in good stead.

He looked at the unconscious teenager and sighed softly. There was nothing else to do but take him to the tea shop. Iroh didn't know where Katara lived or where he could find another healer. With a groan, he managed to lift Jet's dead weight and began the long trek back to the tea shop.

"...I really need to work out more."

Jet stirred to consciousness again as they made it back to the tea shop, eyes blinking open in confusion. Spirits, he hurt, from his toes to his teeth, and he stirred slightly, trying to get himself out of Iroh's grasp.

Wait.

Iroh's grasp. He was being carried.

"Put me down, old man," he snapped tiredly, but the pain and the exhaustion was rolling over him like ocean waves, and he couldn't struggle more than just tokenly.

"Gladly!" Iroh sat Jet down at one of the tables and, panting, wiped his brow. "There was a time I could have carried you up the mountain and down again at a full run without breaking a sweat." He patted his stomach. "That time is no more. Would you like a cup of tea?"

He kept his tone light and conversational, hoping that Jet would remain calm. With any luck Zuko had snuck out, either to play hero or to visit Mai. But if his nephew was upstairs, Iroh didn't want to risk drawing his attention. Neither he nor Jet were in any condition to deal with the young firebender's temper.

Jet lurched forward, leaning bodily against the table as he sat, bracing his hands against the side. He made an audible grunt, followed by a low groaning sound as he tried to keep the pain in his ribs in check, before turning bloodshot eyes to Iroh.

There was confusion written plainly on his face, painfully in his eyes, and he struggled to talk.

".. what do you want with me?"

He looked like a lost little puppy. But Iroh managed to keep a friendly yet not overly warm smile on his lips.

"Right now the only thing I want is to know if you have a favorite kind of tea," he said. His expression then grew serious. "Later I will want to speak with you about certain...incidents in our past, but it doesn't seem very fair to do so while you're hurt."

".. I don't want anything to drink. I'm not thirsty."

His voice was cranky, raspy, but it was true. He wasn't entirely sure that he'd be able to hold down anything that he drank right then regardless, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the table and exhaling a low groan.

"Where are my swords?"

His words were slightly muffled against the table.

Iroh considered pressing the issue but decided against it. Very likely the boy needed sleep more than anything else.

"Your swords are safe." Iroh had wrapped them in his cloak and secured them within his robes, but he was not about to tell Jet their location yet. The odds were low that Jet had the strength to attack, but considering their history, Iroh didn't care to take chances.

"You can sleep in the bed upstairs. How well can you stand now?"

".. I can make it." Most of the shock had worn off, even if his head was still throbbing, his ribs still burned. He pushed himself shakily to his feet, holding the chair with one hand and his chest with the other, before he propelled himself unsteadily toward the stairs.

"And if you're planning to kill me in my sleep, at least wake me up before you do it. Have a little honor."

He had to bite back a comment about how well the place had been rebuilt. He didn't want to actually goad him into killing him.

Iroh smiled with wry sadness. "I have done many terrible things, but I have yet to kill anyone in their sleep."

He followed close behind Jet, ready to catch the young man if he fell.

Jet was slow, agonizingly so, but he was getting there.

".. we're going to have a talk about this when I get up, old man," he grumped slightly, as if it were his place to be determining who talked about what when. Visibly winded when he made it to the top of the stairs, he leaned against the wall, glancing at Iroh with a drawn expression.

"Which door?"

Jet is rewarded with a quiet chuckle. "Yes, I believe we have many things we should talk about once you've rested."

He opened his bedroom door and gestured.

Jet hesitated at the threshold to the room, gripping the door frame and holding himself there for a moment. He seemed to be deliberating, as if he were trying to figure out if he should actually say what he was thinking or not.

"If Lee finds out I'm here, he will try to kill me." He can't remember Zuko's real name, not with the haze in his head or the pain searing through his body in ripples, but it seems like an apt thing to say. He stumbled in, then, heading for the bed without bothering to remove any of his clothes.

"He probably will," Iroh agreed. "But I can stop him. Probably."

Fortunately, Jet seemed to be completely out of it. Iroh prepared to tuck him in. He wanted to Jet to be comfortable, of course... but if he woke up in a pugnacious mood and the blankets made it difficult to move, that would be nice too.

Jet snorted softly at Iroh's last comment, collapsing into the bed and making a slightly defensive, derisive sound as Iroh actually tucked in.

"I don't need help," he mumbled thickly, but the combination of silence in the room and the softness of the bed with the waves of exhaustion were too much for him to argue more than just tokenly. The side of his face and the ridge of one eye were starting to swell with bruising as he fall into a heavy, deep sleep - just battle bruises for him to brag about later.

Iroh couldn't help a small smile. Zuko would say that all the time, especially after the Agni Kai with Ozai and their exile. The scar on his nephew's heart had healed even more poorly than the one on his face.

He wondered what scars Jet carried hidden on his spirit. Which of all of the terrible things the Fire Nation had done had broken this child so badly?

Not with guilt but thoughtful sadness, Iroh slide out of the room and slipped into Zuko's bedroom. If the young man came home, he could always pretend he had gotten so drunk, he got their rooms mixed up.

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