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Down the River -The Hands that Heal, Part Fifteen.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five: Chapter One, Part Five: Chapter Two, Part Five: Chapter Three, Part Six: Chapter One, Part Six: Chapter Two, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen

Summary:

“Did your aversion to public displays of affection and planning dates end those relationships?” When you nod, Chinatsu kicks back in her seat. She stares at the city skyline for a moment, then folds her hands over her stomach. “What’s your strongest, earliest memory as it relates to your sexuality?”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand.” You lean forward and brace your elbows against the table. “I’ve done trauma recovery work and spoken with patients; I know that the stronger the memory is, and the earlier in life it is, the more formative it is for how you feel and respond to things. But what keeps coming to mind doesn’t have anything to do with my relationships or sexuality!”

“Let’s investigate it anyway,” Chinatsu says. “What comes to mind?”

You can practically feel your body try to shut down. Everything goes numb; the early fall breeze doesn’t feel like it’s catching on your skin anymore. It’s almost like something inside you separates from the outer shell of your body. You swallow hard, then force yourself to speak. “It’s when I came out to my parents.”

aka talking about feelings and trauma is hard, part two.

Pairing(s): Lin Beifong x Reader.

Rating: T for emotional trauma and trauma processing, specifically focused on queer identity.

Word count: 9.2k.

“You don’t need to make a big deal out of this!”

…

You can hear birds chirping outside. The residents in the apartment next door are awake; it sounds like they’re making breakfast. You can hear the clatter of dishes and muted chatter through the adjoining wall.

There’s a crack on the ceiling of your bedroom. It’s been painted over, but the break still shows through. It looks like a river cutting through a ravine. You know every inch of that crack. You’ve stared at it on countless groggy mornings and sleepless nights.

Your alarm clock went off ten minutes ago. It’s another day at the physical therapy clinic. You need to get up so you can shower before heading off to work.

You blink when the sound of something hitting the floor –followed by light swearing–emanates through the wall. Sounds messy.

Your alarm clock went off ten minutes ago. You need to get up.

Your eyes trace over the crack in the ceiling. If you let your mind wander far enough, you can envision yourself floating down the imaginary river. You can almost feel the coolness of the water against your skin. The strength of the current beneath your body.

You need to get up.

Your body feels like lead. Despite sleeping adequately, your mind feels like it’s full of fog.

You stare up at the crack on the ceiling. You inhale deeply, then breathe out slowly.

You can feel the water dragging you under its surface.

Get up.

You force yourself to sit up. You stare at the floor for several minutes without really seeing it. Then –finally–you get up from your bed and walk to your phone. “I need to place a call to Northern Moon Physical Therapy Center.” You sag against the wall, gazing off into space while the operator places the call. Your mind drifts to nowhere, filling with the crackle of quiet static. Your body almost goes numb; it’s like you’ve been disconnected from your body, and now part of you is drifting away on some invisible current–

“Northern Moon Physical Therapy Center, how can I help you?”

You flinch, blinking rapidly, then clear your throat and identify yourself to the receptionist. “I need to call in sick today. I think I might’ve caught a bug.”

The receptionist –a sweet young woman named Li-Na–hums sympathetically. “I’ll let management know. Feel better soon.”

You thank her in a mumble of words, then hang up. Alright, at least that’s taken care of.

You’ve got a day to rest. A day to recuperate inside your apartment. A day to stay inside, by yourself, just staring off into space…

You pick up the phone and ask the operator to place another call. When the line picks up, you ask, “Hey, can I take you to lunch today?”

…

The world feels like it’s on lowered volume. Nothing sounds as clear or looks as bright. The chatter from midday shoppers is just a muddy mess. The gently swaying multicolored flags that hang up in Yangchen Plaza are distant blurs.

And I didn’t even get hungover for this, you think absently. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your blouse. What a damn shame.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”

You flinch, caught off guard, then look up as Chinatsu sits down across from you. “Oh. Hi. It’s alright.”

She pauses halfway into her seat. She studies you for a long moment, then slowly finishes sitting. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You swallow hard, then force yourself to nod. “I’m alright.”

Her mouth twists into a disbelieving frown –but then a waiter materializes next to your table, distracting both of you. Once your orders have been taken, she returns the full brunt of her laser-focused attention to you. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” Your voice trails off as you try –and fail–to find the words to explain the mess of muck in your mind. You smile, sardonic, and laugh softly. “I mean, nothing, I guess.”

“Right,” she drawls, expression flatly unconvinced. She adjusts the collar of her tweed blazer, then arches one eyebrow at you. “So, you wanted to have lunch and talk about the weather?”

You blanch. “I –I don’t want you to think that I’m… that I’m just using you for your expertise–”

“What are friends for?” She waves one hand dismissively. “You’re buying me lunch. It’s fine. Why do you look like someone killed your dog?”

You grimace and stare down at the table. “Uh… relationship troubles, I guess.”

Chinatsu nods. “Same lady?” When you nod, she nods again. “What’s the scope of things this time?”

“I… We’re together.” You smile, but it quickly slips away. “The problem’s on my end this time. She pointed out that I’m not very affectionate in public. And that I don’t really initiate a lot of dates. It’s making her feel like I don’t want to be seen with her.”

Chinatsu drums her fingers against the tabletop. She considers, then shrugs. “Not everyone’s comfortable with PDA. And not everyone is a planner.”

“But she’s right,” you insist. Your eyes start watering, and you have to take a deep breath before you can continue. “This isn’t exactly… new to me. It’s come up in past relationships.”

“Did your aversion to public displays of affection and planning dates end those relationships?” When you nod, Chinatsu kicks back in her seat. She stares at the city skyline for a moment, then folds her hands over her stomach. “Not to be nosy, but did you ever experience an instance of sexual abuse or assault?” When you shake your head, she nods. “What’s your strongest, earliest memory as it relates to your sexuality?”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand.” You lean forward and brace your elbows against the table. “I’ve done trauma recovery work and spoken with patients; I know that the stronger the memory is, and the earlier in life it is, the more formative it is for how you feel and respond to things. But what keeps coming to mind doesn’t have anything to do with my relationships or sexuality!”

“Let’s investigate it anyway,” Chinatsu says. “What comes to mind?”

You can practically feel your body try to shut down. Everything goes numb; the early fall breeze doesn’t feel like it’s catching on your skin anymore. It’s almost like something inside you separates from the outer shell of your body. You swallow hard, then force yourself to speak. “It’s when I came out to my parents.”

Chinatsu blinks, then cocks her head to one side and stares flatly at you. She paraphrases you, “‘Doesn’t have anything to do with your sexuality.’”

“Not –not like this!” you sputter. “It doesn’t have anything to do with romantic relationships or dating!”

“It’s fine.” She waves one hand dismissively. “How did they react to you coming out?”

“My mom was supportive.”

Chinatsu nods slowly. “Was your father in the picture?”

“Yes.”

“How did he react?”

Your throat constricts. You shrug and look away from her. “He was himself.”

“Did he disown you?” When you shake your head, she presses further. “Did he assault you –verbally or physically?”

“Tui and La, no!” you reply with a vehement frown and shake of your head. “No –no, he would never. He’d cut off his own hands before he raised one to me –or my mother!”

“Okay, good.” Chinatsu drums her fingers against the wrought metal table top. “I’m assuming he rejected you –or, at least, made you feel rejected.”

The addendum catches you flat-footed –because, no, he didn’t reject you. Not in so many words, at least, you reflect as your chest goes tight with pain. You look down, avoiding your friend’s intense, all-seeing gaze. But we can’t always help what we feel, regardless of what actually happened.

“I heard you the first time.”

Chinatsu watches you while you struggle in silence. When it’s apparent you’re not going to offer any new information, she leans forward in her chair. “Okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But, I do have a question, if that’s alright?” When you nod, she continues. “So, I’m gathering that you agree that you have an issue with being distant in relationships, especially in public settings. What do you see as the source of that anxiety?”

You frown, perplexed, and look up to meet her gaze. “Anxiety?”

“Admittedly, it’s a supposition on my part,” she concedes with a shrug. “But, from what I can gather, you aren’t coming across like you don’t enjoy physical affection at all, or that you don’t see the point of dates.” She pauses, but when you don’t answer, she adjusts her glasses and keeps going. “To me, it reads like you have an aversion to public displays of affection. Generally, aversion is driven by discomfort, distaste, or anxiety,” she explains, ticking off each item on her fingers. “Everything you’ve been telling me –in my opinion–points towards anxiety.” She lowers her hand, then studies your face before asking, “So, in your view of yourself, where do you see that anxiety coming from?”

Your face scrunches up in confusion. “What, like…” Your gaze flits across the plaza, as though you’ll find an answer written on a storefront sign. “Like trauma?”

“Could be,” Chinatsu agrees with a nod. “Or it could be a negative belief system –something that tells you whatever you’re doing is bad, or dangerous, or wrong.”

Something heavy tugs at your gut. You fold your arms over your torso to try and abate it, but it only grows heavier. More uncomfortable. You swallow hard, then shift in your seat.

“Are you okay?”

You nod without thinking about it. “Yeah. Just…” Your teeth fuss at the inside of your bottom lip. “I mean, the Water tribes aren’t necessarily the most open-minded. Queerness isn’t a bad thing, but you’re not supposed to be open about it. I guess…” You roll your shoulders to try to relax your neck (not that it works). “I guess I’m always worried about making everyone else uncomfortable… with… all of it.” You look back up at Chinatsu. “Is that enough?”

“Of course, it is.” She waves one hand dismissively. “This is about your perceptions of yourself and the world around you. Anything can be enough.”

“But –it’s not like I got attacked. Or sexually assaulted.”

“Devastation according to legal or social code really isn’t the point,” Chinatsu explains while shaking her head. She pauses when a waiter brings you both your meals, smiles and says thank you, then waits for the waiter to move out of earshot before resuming. “Trauma isn’t just about things society deems as obviously traumatic. I mean –how many patients have seen you because they hurt themselves doing mundane chores?”

“I’ll do you one better,” you fire back, grinning for the first time since you sat down. “A majority of people throw their back out by sneezing.”

“Spirits, that’s terrifying.” Chinatsu picks up her chopsticks and mixes together her noodles, steamed vegetables, and Komodo chicken. “But, the point stands: injuries aren’t only caused by catastrophic events or abuse. It’s the same with psychological trauma.”

You nod to yourself slowly. You pick up your spoon –but freeze before you stir up your Southern-style Sea Prune stew. “How do I get over this?”

Chinatsu snorts. “Not that easy. You’ve seen how long physical trauma lasts. It depends on the person, the inciting incidents, what treatments are used–”

You let out a dejected sigh. “Figures it wouldn’t be that easy.”

She pauses, then reaches across the table and places one hand on yours. “Hey.” When you look up, she offers you a reassuring smile. “It can get better, okay? I’d recommend therapy –obviously–but in lieu of that, try journaling or talking with someone you trust.” She retracts her hand, then gestures to you. “It’s evident to me that whatever’s causing all this distress is pretty deeply rooted, so doing things to filter it out should help make things clearer.”

You manage a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

…

You have five days until Lin’s supposed to stop by for dinner. Five days to process through whatever bullshit has you all clogged up about romantic relationships so that you can present it to your girlfriend in a coherent enough fashion, in hopes that she doesn’t just dump your emotionally constipated ass and find someone better.

You swallow hard, press down the churning in your stomach, then open up the journal you’d purchased after your lunch with Chinatsu. Alright. Stream of consciousness. Let’s do this. You uncap your pen and stare down at the faintly lined page.

Nothing comes.

You inhale deeply, then put the date in the top right corner of the page. Maybe that’ll help.

It doesn’t.

You spend at least five minutes staring at the empty page, trying to think of something –anything–to write. Your brain feels like it’s turned to lead. When was the last time you even thought of a full, coherent sentence? Were you ever truly capable? Well, it doesn’t matter now, seeing how your damn brain has decided to be a useless glob of shit.

You flop back against your sofa and let out a frustrated groan. How can this be hard? It’s just writing about my feelings!

Maybe it’s your memory that’s at issue here. After all, you still can’t see the connection between your father and your problems in your romantic life. To you, it just doesn’t add up.

Granted, it’s not a pleasant memory. It’s one of those recollections that you keep deeply buried, beneath countless layers of repression and denial.

God, I was so terrified, you reflect with a grim smile. I thought I was going to throw up.

Your mother was wonderfully supportive when you came out to your parents. She’d smiled warmly, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and taken your face in her hands. She’d wiped the tears off your cheeks and assured you that, of course, she’d always love you no matter what.

And your father…

It’s strange, how emotion warps memories. The scene playing out in your mind’s eye switches between being in suffocating black and white, or being painfully bright, like staring directly into the sun.

The kitchen in your parents’ home feels too small. You feel like a giant crammed into a closet –like in a book you read as a child where a girl, upon being transported to a magical realm, grew twenty times her size after eating enchanted cookies.

The instinct to hunch over under the weight of your father’s indifference still holds strong today. You have to forcibly straighten up and relax your shoulders and neck.

It’s disorienting to the point of nausea –you still feel too big to fit in the room (too big to properly breathe), but under your father’s state you feel no more than an inch high. He towers over you, somehow miles away despite sitting at the table next to you.

You think that maybe he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he didn’t understand. Either way, he still hasn’t said anything, and you’re going to throw up or pass out –or both–if he keeps silent. You swallow hard, knees shaking, and tell him the news again–

You jerk out of your reverie with a grief-stricken sob. You clamp one hand over your mouth, body trembling as panic washes over you. You draw down a breath as deep as you can, then lunge for your journal and scrawl out a single sentence.

Why do I always have to make myself small?

You cap your pen, all but fling it onto your coffee table, then drop your face into your hands before bursting into tears.

…

“Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply, blink, then return your attention to Amaruq. “Yeah. Sorry. Spaced out for a minute.”

She seems none too convinced. She leans against the table in the breakroom and tucks a client folder under her arm. “Are you sure? You went ashen for a minute.” When you purse your lips, she pulls out a chair and sits down. “What’s wrong?”

“Just…” You quirk your mouth to one side and shrug. “Dealing with some stuff.”

“I’m so sorry. Do you need to talk about it?”

You nearly say “no” –it’s reflexive–but stop just before you can shake your head. Maybe… maybe it would help. Amaruq grew up in the Northern Water tribe, too. She’d understand the culture.

Besides, Chinatsu told you to talk to someone about it; if you talk to Amaruq, you can actually say you’ve done that much.

“Uh…” You swallow hard, then nod. “Yeah, actually. If you’re okay with that.”

“Of course.” She sets the closed folder on the table, then sits back in her chair and folds her hands over her lap. “What’s going on?” She cocks her head to one side for a moment and studies you for a moment. Then, her eyes widen; she glances around the breakroom, then leans towards you once she’s certain there’s no one nearby. “Is it –is it the incident?”

You shake your head. “No. No, it’s not that. It’s–” You have to swallow again when nausea suddenly overtakes you; your stomach churns, and you can feel a cold sweat break out across your back and the nape of your neck. You breathe deeply through your nose, then let it out through your mouth. You flick a glance around the room to make sure no one’s within earshot –aside from Amaruq, of course–then murmur, “It’s queer stuff.”

“Oh.” Amaruq blinks a few times. Then, her brows furrow together. “Is it Lin?”

“I mean… not really?” You shrug when she motions for you to continue. “It’s… it’s more me than her.”

Amaruq nods, expression heavy with contemplation. “Okay.”

“You–” You grit your teeth when another wave of nausea crests over you. “You grew up in the tribe. You –you know how things are.”

Understanding settles over Amaruq’s features. She nods slowly, emphatically, and sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Your knee bounces up and down beneath the table. You lean forward, arms braced against your stomach to try and ease the nervous tension coiled there. “I mean–” You let out a hollow, breathless laugh. “We’re lucky. We could’ve grown up in the Earth Kingdom. Or Ba Sing Se, specifically.”

“There are places where it’s worse,” Amaruq agrees with a sage nod. She purses her lips, expression strained. “But I don’t think many people really consider…” She swallows hard, tucks her tongue against the inside of her lower lip, then sighs. “They don’t think about what it’s like if you’re just expected to stay in the closet your whole life.”

It’s like someone cut the strings holding you up. You slump forward, managing to brace your chin against your palm. “Yeah.” You manage a wan smile and arch one eyebrow at her. “We won’t go to jail for it. Or be killed for it. And it seems like once those bars are cleared, the world stops caring.”

“They do,” Amaruq agrees. She stares down at the table, gaze distant, then smiles faintly. “I had the hardest adjustment when I moved here. I was so used to being… overly discreet, I guess. I was so shocked at how open everyone is here about their sexuality.”

“As a rule, yeah.” You laugh. “It’s almost like they’re being rude, right?”

“Exactly!” Amaruq’s eyes widen. “It seems so… so socially unaware!”

“It’s like you’re forcing everyone else to watch!”

“That’s how I felt!” She leans back in her seat again and smiles, equal parts nostalgic and pained. “I learned how to get past it –how to be more comfortable with being ‘out’... but, Tui and La, it was painful for a bit.”

You clench your teeth and grimace. “Yeah.” You close your eyes and breathe deep when another wave of nausea mixed with dizziness sweeps over you, then open your eyes and look at your friend once more. “How did your parents react when you came out?”

Her nostrils flare, and her lips tuck into a tight frown. “They were dismissive. I mean –they were fine with it, but they really didn’t want to talk about it. They didn’t want me to be open about it.” Her jaw tightens, and her brows draw together. “My mom said that she didn’t want to have to think about it.”

Your gut clenches sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

“After coming here, I tried to explain…” She pauses, then shakes her head. “Well, I tried. They weren’t very receptive.” Her hands curl into tight balls in her lap. “We don’t talk anymore.”

You frown, saddened, and reach out to touch her forearm. “Oh, Amaruq, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” She forces herself to untense and offers you a small smile. “It is what it is. My partner and friends here have been very supportive, and I couldn’t be more grateful.” She watches you for a moment, then asks, “Have you told your parents?”

You nod.

“How did they react?”

“My mother was supportive,” you answer, smiling softly –though it slips away seconds later. “My father… he was a lot like your parents.”

Amaruq grimaces. “I’m so sorry.”

“You know–” You let out a sardonic laugh. “I never really thought about how it impacted me? But… I haven’t been back to the Northern Water tribe in years. I just… can’t.”

“I know what you mean.”

You lean back in your chair, somewhat floored by the revelation. You stare down at the tabletop for a moment, then shake your head. “Wow. I can’t…” Your voice trails off, and you swallow hard before whispering, “Wow.”

“It’s understandable,” Amaruq assures you after studying you for a moment. “I don’t think I could go back, either.” She shakes her head, lips pursed as she mulls it over, then turns her attention back to you. “I’m guessing the ‘culture shock’” –she makes air quotes with her fingers– “is causing strain between you and Lin?”

You nod. “It’s… it’s been a problem for all my romantic relationships, really. I can’t think of one that didn’t end –or at least have problems–because of it.”

“I’m sorry.” Amaruq winces sympathetically. Then, she leans over and places her hand on your upper arm. “But, if I can give some encouragement?” When you nod, she smiles. “It’s worth working through, I promise. It won’t be easy, but it’ll be worth it in the end.”

You smile back and place your hand over hers. “Thank you.”

…

Saturday arrives without warning. It’s like you blink, and then it’s the end of the week.

Despite everything, you start panicking. You oscillate between frantically cleaning, wondering if you’re cleaning too much, and following each tick of the minute hand on the clock you keep in your kitchen until you nearly lose your fucking mind.

Three minutes until noon, and you finally stop. You force yourself to get off your couch, take a deep breath through your nose, then let it out through your mouth until the room doesn’t feel like it’s spinning anymore. Okay. You’re making dinner tonight. Go get ingredients.

The walk down to the outdoor market in your neighborhood does you good. The fresh air and sunshine clears your head and finishes clearing out any remaining panic.

You… might go a little overboard. You were already planning on making Northern-style Sea Prune stew, so you purchase the handful of ingredients you don’t have on hand. There’s also a good deal on whole red snapper, so you get one to share with Lin –which means getting ingredients for a marinade. You get some fresh vegetables and mushrooms for sides, too. If Lin hadn’t already told you she’d bring dessert, you’d have gotten something for that, too.

Halfway on your walk back to your apartment, and you regret not taking a cab back. Fucking hindsight, you grumble in your head as you adjust your hold on your many paper bags.

It turns out to work for the best, though (making so many dishes, not walking back, though nothing detrimental happens). Getting the stew going, prepping and marinating the fish, and preparing the vegetables and mushrooms keeps you busy for the rest of the day. Between cooking and cleaning as you go, you don’t have time to spiral into overthinking for the rest of the day.

A knock on your apartment door jolts you out of your efficient flow of work.

Your stomach drops. You catch yourself against the lip of the counter when you stagger. You close your eyes, inhale deeply through your nose, then let it out through your mouth. Relax. Everything’s going to be fine… hopefully.

Lin offers you a small smile when you open the door. She waits until you’ve closed and locked the door, then holds out a small, white paper box to you. “I stopped by The Juniper Cafe.”

“Always a good choice.” You accept the box from her, then lift the lid to peek inside –only to let out a soft, pleased gasp when you see four custard tartlets sitting inside. “You got the mango flavor!”

“You said it was your favorite.”

You grin at Lin; you feel warm all over. “That was very sweet of you.” You tuck the box in the icebox for later, then turn and hold your arms out to her. “It’s good to see you.”

Lin steps forward and accepts the offer for a hug. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Something shifts in your brain as soon as she wraps her arms around your shoulders. It’s like the final, teeny piece of the dam holding your emotions back crumbles. It ripples through your whole body; relief and grief cascade through you, warring against each other, you go nearly boneless at the same time your eyes well up with tears and your throat constricts. You draw in a shaky breath, then bury your face against her shoulder and let out a shuddering sigh.

Lin picks up on the shift immediately. She tenses, then cups the back of your neck with one hand. “Are you okay?”

You nod, then turn your head a little so she’ll hear you easier. “It’s just been a long week,” you explain, voice wavering.

Lin stays still for a moment. Then, she slides her free arm lower, around your waist, and hugs you closer. And she just… holds you.

You feel tears threaten to slip free when she kisses the top of your head. You sniff, then let yourself melt and break –just a little–in her grasp.

…

It’s a fight to keep Lin from assisting you in finishing dinner.

She balks, first, at how much you’re making. Her eyes go wide when she sees how many pans and pots are atop your stove –and again when you check the oven, revealing the baking snapper. “If I’d known you were going to this much effort–”

“Yeah, why do you think I didn’t tell you?”

“How much did you spend–”

“You’re not paying me back.” You close the oven door –the snapper’s not quite done yet–then shake your head when she crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re my girlfriend, Lin. It’s fine if I want to spoil you a bit. Besides–” you stir the pot of bubbling stew with your waterbending “–these’ll be leftovers for me in the coming week.”

She sighs, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she steps into your kitchen. “How can I help?”

“I’ve got it –you’re a guest!” you insist when Lin rolls her eyes.

“I’m your girlfriend,” she fires back, giving you a flat stare (though the corners of her mouth twitch upwards). “It’s fine if I want to help you.” When you don’t acquiesce, she simply starts doing dishes you haven’t gotten to yet.

So, clearly, your only recourse is using your waterbending to bend the water away from the dish in her hands. You giggle when she slowly turns her head and stares at you, then let the water revert to its natural course. “Sorry.”

“I doubt it.”

…

Dinner goes smoothly. The two of you set up on your sofa, kick back, and enjoy the mountain of food you made while catching each other up on your respective weeks.

You nearly choke on a mouthful of rice and vegetables when Lin tells you about a bust on a Spirit Vine dealing ring. Your eyes bug out, and you quickly swallow before clearing your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t–” You raise your eyebrows at her. “You said ‘pounds,’ right?”

“Pounds,” Lin confirms, looking simultaneously amused and exhausted.

“Two hundred pounds,” you repeat; you can’t even wrap your head around the amount. When Lin nods, you gape. “I –what would they even use that much for?”

“There’s groups purporting various medicinal and spiritual uses for Spirit Vines,” Lin says with a sigh. “So there are corporations and private individuals trying to cash in on a new industry opportunity without having to go through proper licensing, affiliating with local unions, or paying taxes. Aside from that, there’s research that suggests that the vines could be used as a new energy source.”

“So it’s the same deal,” you surmise. “Capitalize on the resource, avoid fees or legal limitations, create a monopoly…”

Lin nods and wipes her fingers on a napkin. “And, unfortunately, there’s testing that proves the vines can be used to create weapons.”

Right. Kuvira’s giant mech used spirit vines to power the cannon. It was practically in every paper at the time. You purse your lips. “Shit.”

Lin grimaces and nods. “Yeah.” She leans back against your couch and offers you a small smile. “What happened with your work this week?”

“Nothing as exciting as what you did,” you state with a laugh.

Lin laughs along with you. “Some days, I think I’d take that.”

But dinner passes all too quickly. And because Lin insists on helping you with the clean up and putting the food away, you’re suddenly out of stall time and back in your head.

You swallow hard when your stomach churns. Maybe dinner wasn’t such a good idea, after all. You grit your teeth, then force the nausea creeping up your throat back down. I am not wasting that snapper.

Lin notices the shift in your mood –probably because she’s spent years as a detective and was trained to pick up on such changes, but also probably because you feel like you’re going to shit out your heart, and that’s bound to show on your face. She latches onto your shoulders like you’re about to keel over. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie. You take a deep breath, then try to squish yourself back into your body before looking up at her. You smile and look up at her without really seeing her face. “I’m fine.” You blink when she takes your wrist in one hand, then laugh when she starts counting under her breath. “I’m not going to pass out, Lin.”

“You look like it. You need to sit down.”

You let her walk you over to your couch and sit without protest. You clasp your hands tightly in your lap, then offer her a thin smile when she sits next to you. “We should…” You clear your throat, then force yourself to keep going. “We should probably talk about ‘it,’ yeah?”

It doesn’t take Lin long to catch your meaning. Her brows draw together, but then her look of confusion fades a few moments later. She purses her lips, but lets out a long breath and nods. “Only if you feel up to it.”

“I want to,” you assure her. “And –I mean, we need to. We should.” You can feel your hands getting sweaty, and you wipe them off on the legs of your pants.

After you go silent for a few moments, Lin gestures for you to continue. “You’re the one who said you wanted time to sort stuff out.”

“Yeah.” You tuck your hair behind your ears, then cover your face with your hands. “Look, just–” You draw in a shaky breath, then lift your head slightly so she can hear you clearly. “This –this is going to sound really stupid, and it’ll probably sound like I’m whining, so I’m sorry in advance, okay?”

Lin frowns and sits back against the sofa. She crosses her arms loosely over her chest, then crosses one leg over her knee. “Alright.”

You’re sweating. You can feel the clamminess on your hands, along your back, at the nape of your neck, in the pits of your knees. Your chin trembles, and you stare down at the floor as you try to think of where to even start with all of this shit. You let out a shaky breath –then jolt when Lin puts a hand on your back. You gasp, then clear your throat and look at her.

“Whatever you have to say,” she assures you, voice quiet but clear, “it’s alright.”

You swallow hard, then nod and go back to staring at the floor. “I… I don’t know. I guess –I guess it’s never really one of those things I thought about, you know?”

“Thought about what?”

“About… about how different things are here, compared to the Northern Water tribe.” You let out a shaky breath, and some of the tension in your chest chips away. You sigh –then let out a bitter laugh. “You know, any time any of us talk about it –or anyone raised in the Southern tribe–we always hear about how it’s worse in the Earth Kingdom, worse in Ba Sing Se. And it is. The laws and social attitudes towards queerness there are worse than they’ll ever be in the Water tribes.” You pause, purse your lips, then smack one loose fist against your thigh. “But… no one understands!”

“Understands what?” Lin asks after you’ve been quiet for a few moments.

You deflate a bit, shoulders slumping, and drop your head into your hands. You groan, then rub your face to try and focus your mind. “It was so weird when I first moved here, you know.” You lower your hands from your face and offer her a hollow smile. “I mean, I knew that Republic City followed the Fire Nation’s reforms and Air Nomad philosophies towards sexuality. I knew that it was an open safe space for queer communities.” You sit back against the sofa and stare down at your lap. “I still remember the first week I was here. I’d just gotten settled in university, and I’d gone to a local market to get a few supplies –and there were two men, just walking together and holding hands! And they stopped to look at some produce, and one of the men kissed his partner on the cheek, and I couldn’t help but stare because it just… felt rude? To make such a public scene?” You sniff, then wipe away a tear that’s trailing down your cheek. “And I looked around, and literally no one but me noticed. But back home, it would’ve been such a big deal!”

“Is PDA frowned on in the Water tribes?” Lin asks with a frown.

You grimace and sigh. “For visibly queer couples, yes.”

She grimaces as well. “But not for straight-passing couples.”

“But not for straight-passing couples,” you surmise. You go quiet again, then let out a quiet, watery laugh. “You know, I never really processed… any of it. The whole rule against appearing ‘gay’ in public, against talking about it, or being open about it outside of home, or in select company just seemed so normal. And it still feels normal.”

Lin says nothing –but when you start crying harder, she reaches over and takes your hand in hers.

You sniff, then let out a choked, body-shaking sob. You rub your cheeks dry with the back of your free hand –not that it does much good, because your skin’s soaked again seconds later. “I feel so big,” you confess with a shaking gasp, “all the time. I feel like I’m always breaking out of my body. Like I’m taking up too much space. Everywhere I go –whenever someone might be able to tell I’m gay, I feel like there are thousands of eyes on me, that everyone’s just waiting for some sort of proof–” You inhale sharply, when Lin puts one arm around your shoulders, then weep a bit when she tugs you into her arms. You bury your face into her neck and cry. “I –I just d-don’t want to piss anyone off, o-or get ye-yelled at, or–”

“Easy.” Lin shushes you, then hugs you tight. She kisses your forehead, then cups the back of your neck when you whimper. “Just breathe.”

Easier said than done, but eventually, you manage. Your shoulders and chest jump as you gasp unsteadily, but slowly, surely, your body winds down. Eventually, you’re limp in her hold, hiccuping softly as tension and panic winds out of you, leaving melancholy and fatigue in its wake. Well, that was dramatic. You sniff, then grimace. And it probably didn’t explain shit. You swallow hard, then let out a tremulous sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“Well, I am. I don’t think I explained myself well.”

“You did fine,” Lin says, voice soft but firm in a way that tells you that while she cares about you and is sensitive to your mood at present, she’s not going to tolerate arguing. (Good thing for her, your sob session tired you out.) She smoothes one hand over your hair, then kisses the top of your head when you draw in a shaky breath. “I have one question, if that’s okay?”

You nod, then sniff. “Yeah, go for it.”

“Can you look at me?” She waits, then brushes a few stray locks of hair off your forehead once you lift your head. “You mentioned that you didn’t want to be yelled at.”

You frown, confused. “Yeah…”

“Has anyone ever yelled at you over this?” Lin asks, gesturing vaguely with one hand. When you drop her gaze, and your expression shifts to one of pain, the arm wrapped around your back tenses. “Who yelled at you?” she asks, voice lower, more gravelly.

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant, but your eyes start stinging again. “My dad did.” Your lower trembles, and you can feel your throat tensing with grief once more. “When I came out.”

Lin sucks in a breath, then pulls you against her. She hugs you tight, tucking your head beneath her chin. “I’m so sorry. He was wrong for rejecting–”

“He didn’t!” you snap –more out of anger towards yourself than her. You pull away, then lurch into a standing position and start pacing around your apartment. “That’s –that’s the thing I don’t fucking understand! He didn’t reject me! He didn’t tell me that I was wrong for being gay, or that he didn’t want me to be gay, or that he was ashamed to have a gay daughter, or any of it!” You spread your arms wide in a harsh, jerky movement. “None of that happened!”

Lin watches you, lips pulled into a worried frown. “But he yelled at you?”

“I mean…” You stall, deflating slightly. You swallow hard, fighting against a fresh wave of nausea, then shrug. “Yeah. He did.”

“Why?” When you shrug again, she purses her lips and changes tracks. “What did he say?”

You clench your jaw as anguish threatens to overtake you again. You look away and spread your arms in a short, tight movement. “He got mad when I tried to push the issue.”

Lin’s brows draw together. “I thought you said he didn’t reject you.”

“He didn’t.” You sniff, shoulders shaking as you start crying again. “He– I–” You stop, swallow hard, then take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Just start from the beginning. Get the whole thing out there. “I came out to both of my parents at the same time. My mom was supportive. She hugged me, told me she loved me–” You stop when your voice breaks, then duck your head and push forward. “And my dad –I mean, it’s not like he really reacted. He–” You gasp. Your chest feels tight. “I thought –I thought he didn’t hear me, or maybe he didn’t understand, so I told him again–”

Lin stands and steps around your coffee table.

“He told me that he heard me the first time,” you eke out between sobs as she draws you into her arms. You choke on a gasp, then cling onto the front of her shirt. “And –and that I shouldn’t shove it into anyone’s face. He told me that he heard me, and that was that, and to be done with it, and that I shouldn’t be so dramatic–”

Lin hooks her arm under your shoulder when your knees give out. She wraps one arm around your back, then squats and hooks her other arm under your knees. She carries you back to the couch, sits, then tucks a blue throw blanket you keep over the back of your sofa around you.

You’re incoherent for a while. You bury your face into her shoulder and sob; you let it all out –all your nonsensical grief, and anguish, and fear.

Lin stays quiet, but her hold on you never falters. She doesn’t complain, or fidget, or try to hurry you along in any way.

You cry until your face feels raw from your tears. Until your voice is hoarse and you’ve given yourself a headache. Until you’re on the verge of collapsing from dehydration (okay, maybe not that severe, but you feel like a dishrag that’s been wrung out until it's bone dry).

“I don’t know why it hurts so much,” you croak once you’ve caught your breath, some long while later. “It wasn’t that bad. It shouldn’t hurt so much.”

Lin’s silent for a couple beats. Then, she shifts so your head is tucked in the crook of her neck. She squeezes you against her for a moment, then brushes her lips against your forehead. “I think it’s enough.”

You sniff. Your throat goes tight. And then, you start crying again.

…

She stays the night.

“It’s your choice,” Lin says once you’ve gotten up to get some water (because even though you’re not on the verge of death, you did dehydrate yourself), “but I’d feel better knowing you’re not alone tonight.”

“I mean… you can stay if you want.” You gulp down some water, then frown. “I won’t have coffee for you in the morning.”

“I’ll live.”

You grimace into your water cup. “I don’t have any spare toiletries for you to use, or anything. I don’t know if I’d have pajamas that fit you, either.”

“It’s not the end of the world,” she says with a shrug.

“Dental hygiene is important,” you mumble into your mug.

Lin merely arches one eyebrow at you, unimpressed. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll just borrow your toothbrush.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Isn’t that gross?”

“...I’ve had my entire tongue inside your cunt.” She smirks when you spit your water back into your cup out of sheer shock. “I find it surprising that this is where you draw the line at ‘gross.’”

You laugh a little, but it fades. You go back to staring down at your half-empty glass of water. “I don’t want to be a bad hostess.”

“You made me dinner–”

“And then I cried on you for an hour and ruined your shirt.”

“It’s not. Ruined.” Lin stands, walks over to your kitchen, and places her hands on your shoulders. “Look, if it’s that important to you, I can duck back to my place and pack an overnight bag.”

“But it’s late,” you sigh with a glance at the clock. “And cold. I don’t want to make you deal with that.”

“You wouldn’t be –but fine. I’m fine with staying without an overnight bag.” She stares down at you for a moment, then softens when your exhausted, bleak expression doesn’t lift. She cups your cheek with one hand, then murmurs your name. “If you want to be alone, it’s okay. I won’t take it personally.”

You sniff, then lean into her hand. “I want you to stay.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Lin murmurs as she sweeps her thumb over the swell of your cheek.

She winds up not returning to her apartment for an overnight bag. She borrows your toothbrush. “I worked homicide as a detective,” she says when you keep fussing over her. “Arguably, this is the least gross thing I’ve seen or done in my life.” She borrows an oversized shirt of yours and a pair of shorts that she deems comfortable.

You climb into bed next to Lin after turning out the light. You let out a shaky, relieved breath when she wraps one arm around you, then lay your head against her shoulder.

You feel bad. You feel guilty. You’ve spent the better part of the evening as an emotional, spewing wreck, and now you’ve got her here overnight without basic amenities for her.

You bite the tip of your tongue before you can apologize; it seems wrong to make her console you –again–after all she’s done for you tonight. You sniff, then adjust where your hand rests on her chest so you can feel the gentle thud of her heart. “Thank you.”

Lin hugs you closer and kisses the top of your head. “Of course.”

It’s a short course to falling asleep (though you spend your remaining consciousness making a list of what you need to have on hand should your girlfriend spend the night in the future).

…

Lin wakes up before you.

You wake up face down in a pillow, starfished across the open space in your bed, tangled up in blankets like a penguinseal in a fisherman’s net. You grunt when something presses against your shoulder, then lift your head and shove your hair against your face. “Huh?”

Lin smirks. “Good morning.” She holds a steaming mug out to you. “I made tea.”

“Oh.” You struggle into a sitting position, then accept the cup with a grateful nod. “Thank you.”

The two of you sit in silence for a bit as you drag yourself out of the dregs of slumber. Once you’ve downed half the cup, you finish extricating yourself from your snarl of blankets and make your way to your living room.

The two of you have some of the mango custard tarts for breakfast. Lin uses a plate and utensils to eat hers, while you pick one up out of the box and bite straight into it.

“It’s about the authentic experience,” you argue when Lin teases you.

“What’s so authentic about eating like a heathen?” Lin quips.

You swallow, then gesture with your tartlet. “Because I feel the urge to eat them like this everytime I go to Juniper’s.”

Lin smirks and shakes her head.

It’s soft and companionable, eating custard tarts and drinking tea on your sofa in the early, autumnal morning light.

You finish off the last of your tea, then lay your head against Lin’s shoulder. “I–” You purse your lips as the urge to apologize rears its head, then swallow it. “Thank you. For last night. And everything.”

“Of course.”

You lift your head when she leans forward to set her plate, utensils, and cup on your coffee table, then settle back against her once she sits back once more. You nestle against her side, then let out a little sigh when she takes your hands in hers. “I feel like we should talk about last night.”

“Do you want to?”

You press your lips together, but nod. “I think we should. I mean –we haven’t even talked about your side of it, really. It’s… it’s important to me.”

“Okay.” Lin squeezes your hand gently, then shifts so she’s angled towards you. “Is it okay if I go first?”

“Yeah.” You nod, then look up at her. “Of course.”

She offers you a small, soft smile, then looks down at your joined hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever considered how growing up in the Northern Water Tribe would impact your perspective of public affection –or your own sexuality, for that matter.” She squeezes your hand gently, then lets out a soft huff. “I suppose I was more fortunate. I grew up in an accepting family and environment. There wasn’t ever an issue of public affection being ‘inappropriate’ because of my partner’s gender –or a notion that I was supposed to keep my sexuality completely to myself, or only in select circles. It was always my choice.”

“I’m glad,” you interject. You offer her a smile when she looks at you. “I’m glad you had that support.”

Lin gives you a small smile in return, then drops your gaze as she returns to contemplation. She stares down at your joined hands. Her thumb rubs circles against the back of your hand. “If I can ask… why did you keep saying that how your father responded ‘wasn’t that big of a deal?’”

“I…” You blink a few times, then swallow hard. I don’t know. You shrug. “It… it just isn’t, I guess.”

“But he yelled at you when you came out to him. How is that not a problem?” Lin frowns when you don’t respond. “Did he yell at you a lot?”

“I don’t know,” you answer with a shrug. “It didn’t seem like a lot. He wasn’t the most emotionally open person, so when he got mad, it was kind of hard to tell until it hit the breaking point.” When Lin nods, but her frown doesn’t lift, you frown up at her, concerned. “What?”

She sighs. “Look, I’ll concede that I’m not the best at this shit, but –in my opinion–he shouldn’t have yelled at you. Whatever was going on in his head, you’re his kid. You needed him.” Her voice cracks at the end, but she swallows hard and moves on quickly. “There wasn’t anything you did that warranted him yelling, as far as I can tell.”

A lump rises up in your throat. You press your lips together to try and keep the tidal wave of feelings –anguish, anger, grief–at bay. You give a tight, one shouldered shrug and let out a hollow laugh. “I appreciate that, but it’s not like you were there.”

“I wasn’t,” she agrees, nodding. “Doesn’t mean I can’t tell if something’s fucked up when I see it.”

You grimace, then shift your position on the couch. You cross your free arm over your stomach and bring your knees up against your chest. “I thought we were talking about you,” you deflect, careful to keep your voice teasing instead of accusatory.

Lin considers, then shakes her. “Not much to talk about.”

“Okay, no–” You level her with a hard stare when she opens her mouth to argue. “Relationships are a two-way street, Lin. The whole reason we wound up here is because I made you feel like I don’t care about you or our relationship. Your feelings are important, regardless of my childhood bullshit.”

“Stop. That.” Lin’s upper lip curls slightly as she meets your stare. “Quit trivializing your experiences. If we’re talking about my feelings, how am I supposed to feel when you’re degrading yourself in the process? Because now I feel like I need to comfort you –and I want to–when you’ve made it clear that we’re talking about my hurt in the situation. How is that fair?”

You duck your head and purse your lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.” She squeezes your hand tenderly. “It’s just not fair.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” You sniff, then let out a ragged sigh as your vision clouds over from tears. “I just… I hate that this all splashed out on you. You shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“Everyone brings baggage to a relationship.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want you getting hurt!” Your voice breaks at the end, and you gasp as tears start dripping down your cheeks. “I –I didn’t ever want to hurt you!”

Lin lets go of your hand and winds her arms around your shoulders. “It’s okay.”

“It isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. People fuck up. We’re working through it. It’s okay.”

You can’t help but snort. “I think you may have missed your calling as a therapist.”

“I’d fling myself off a bridge first,” Lin replies, utterly serious, without missing a beat.

You sniff, then lay your head against her shoulder. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Of course.” She kisses the top of your head. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

You sigh, then nestle against her. You take a moment to collect yourself –catch your breath, dry your face, let the wave of emotions pass–then tap her arm. “We still need to talk about you.”

“I already said–”

“You’re not getting out of this!” you interject. You wag your index finger at her. “If I’m suffering, so are you. Start talking about your feelings, Beifong.”

“You do realize who you’re talking to –hey!” Lin grabs your hand when you start poking her in the ribs. “That’s enough, brat. Behave.”

“Not a damn day in my life.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” She chuckles when you laugh, but her body goes tense against yours soon after. “Okay, hear me out. I’ve already told you I don’t have anything to say for my part –no.” She claps one hand over your mouth when you start to protest. “You can be patient.”

You’re half tempted to lick her hand, but it’s lost in the wake of unexpected arousal. Note to self: bring this up later.

She lowers her hand once you nod. “I’m being honest,” Lin continues. “What I needed was context and clarity. Especially since I know that what you’re dealing with is trauma-based–”

“It’s not–”

“Whatever you want to fucking call it,” she sighs, slightly exasperated. “My point is that it’s not just a lack of care or effort. You’re processing through shit, and I’m okay to meet you where you’re at. Okay?”

I’m gonna fucking cry again. You mash your lips into a thin line. You can feel your eyes burning again. You smile, then nod. “Okay. Thank you.”

Lin’s expression softens. She tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Of course.”

You curl up against her for a bit, and she folds her arms around you. The two of you bask in the late morning silence –the glow of the sunlight filtering through the window, the rattle of Satomobiles outside, the soft sounds of the tenants around and above you starting their day. There’s a deep sense of peace that comes with it; it’s almost meditative.

“I want to get better,” you say after a bit. At Lin’s questioning hum, you look up at her. “I want to work on being more comfortable with relationship stuff in public. Not just for you –though you’re very important to me–but for me, too.” As much as I count, anyway. You swallow, then press on. “I just… need time.”

Lin nods, then tucks your head beneath her chin. “I have time.”

#just be forewarned

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#just be forewarned