#sooz writes things

[sooz-art]

A scene from an abandoned fic.

[sooz-again]

A Graveyard of a Different Kind

Rated: G

Tags: Piandao & Sokka, post-canon, post-war, weapons, pov Sokka, angst, confronting the cost of war in unexpected places

Summary: Piandao shows Sokka his collection of weaponry. It isn't what Sokka expects.

Read it here.

[sooz-again]

True to Zuko's word, there are new clothes waiting for him in the bedroom, along with servants eager to help dress him. That is never going to happen, and he manages to kick out the servants before turning to the many layers of clothing that have been laid out of him. It is obvious, before even touching the linen and silk hanfu Zuko had selected for him, that this will be the finest clothes Jet has ever worn. The clothing Piandao has afforded him has seemed luxurious enough, but this? This is something different. This is a hassle. Jet realizes this after getting the first layer on, tying the linen robe shut and grumbling to himself about the two others. The sleeves are long and wide; impractical. And the robe is cut long enough to nearly graze the floor. It doesn't drag on the ground like Zuko's do (thank Oma), but the feeling he might trip over his own clothes is certainly present. These clothes are not fit for combat. The thought makes him pause. The war is over. He's not in Gaipan Forest, hiding in trees and waiting to get the drop on anyone— where his current outfit would certainly hinder him. There's no fight to be had. No one to fight. Strange, how he knows this, and how he still needs to be reminded of this. Jet exhales slowly, shaking his head, and focuses on finishing donning the hanfu.

Jet Lives AU giving Jet the space to grapple with the fact that he doesn't know a life without fighting, my beloved.

(aka a preview of the next chapter of The Price To Pay For Loss of Control)

[sooz-again]

Chapter three is up!

Part 2 of the Déjà Entendu series Sequel to The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows Fic Summary:

Continuing where The Quiet Things left off, Jet adjusts to, of all things, life in the Fire Nation, while still trying to make sense of the brainwashing he'd endured and who Zuko is to him. But as things start to feel normal again, a trip to Ba Sing Se could drastically change everything.

[sooz-again]

The Duke to Kanto

A new kid had found their way into the Freedom Fighters. Normally, this wasn’t a big deal. New kids joined every week, though nearly all were found or saved by the Freedom Fighters. This kid, this kid was different.  And not just because he found the Freedom Fighters first, but because of his age.  Smellerbee looked down at the little kid. He was little, so little, practically a baby, happily shoving handfuls of rice into his mouth. Jet had waved that off, that clearly, he wasn’t a baby; the kid could walk and talk and had managed to figure out the rope system to get up high into the trees with the rest of them. He was likely four or five.  Still, much younger than any of the other dozen or so Freedom Fighters they had in their ranks. Much too young to fight. Because that was what they were there together for. To work together and fight back against the Fire Nation. No one would ever expect a bunch of kids, especially with Jet being the oldest and only thirteen. The youngest in their ranks was nine, and even they struggled to keep up at times. Her eyes lingered on the small boy, eating their precious food from their already meager stores. Food he’d already stolen from, now being happily handed more. This kid, this small, young kid, could never be able to earn his keep. She glanced at Longshot and saw the same concern in his eyes. What was Jet thinking? “He’s got an appetite, doesn’t he?” Jet laughed, either ignoring her obvious disapproval or unaware of it entirely. Someone had to knock to knock some sense into him. “Jet,” Smellerbee hissed, low enough that the kid wouldn’t hear, but loud enough to get Jet’s attention. “What are we going to do with him?” And Jet just turned on that charming, cocky grin. “Give him a bed and start training him in the morning.” “Jet.” He had to know how stupid this was. What they did was dangerous. This little guy had no business getting involved in it. Maybe in a few years, maybe then he could earn his keep among their ranks. But right now? He was just a liability they couldn’t afford. The grin fell away, and Jet leaned in close, determination and something Smellerbee couldn’t place in his eyes. “This kid wants to be here. Found his way up here on his own; it takes a special kind of kid to do that. We didn’t have anyone preparing us when we were his age. Imagine where we’d be if we had; we’d have the Fire Nation running for the hills, I’d bet. So we’re going to get him ready, we’re going to train him good.” Smellerbee did not protest, but deep within, something felt wrong about this. Looking back to when she was this kid’s age, she doesn’t wish that someone had better prepared her for becoming a Freedom Fighter. She wished that nothing bad had ever happened.  But there was a reason that Jet was in charge, there was a reason they all looked to him for guidance. He was the smart one, the one with the ideas, the one who always kept them safe and at the ready. She’d have to trust him on this. And Jet leaned back, and looked at the young kid. “What do you want your codename to be?” The boy paused, halfway through a bite of an apple, and stared up at Jet. “Huh?” “I’m Jet, and this is Smellerbee and Longshot,” Jet said, gesturing to them. “We don’t use real names. What do you want us to call you?” The kid frowned, slowly chewing, before saying, “I’m the Duke.” “Duke? That’s a cool name.” “No, the Duke.” Jet laughed and patted him on the shoulder, smiling down at him.  And, quietly, not to anyone but himself , Smellerbee barely heard him say, “You’re going to be the best of all of us.”

Several years ago, I decided to write about the Duke's life; how he joined the Freedom Fighters, what happened after the Freedom Fighters, and where he went when the war ended. You can read the rest of it here.

[sooz-again]

“I’m not against confrontation!” Zuko sounds ready to tear his hair out, desperate. “Why do you think I took Katara to find Yon Rha? It can help, I know it can help!” And he pauses, his expression softening. “It just can’t be my uncle. I can’t–”  If Zuko keeps talking, Jet doesn’t hear it. He swallows, and he nods. Zuko is right. For once, Zuko is absolutely right. Confrontation is what he needs. Confrontation, and with the right person. Not with Iroh. Jet can divert his attention. There is another name, another face, a more prominent face to focus his need for blood from. Someone he won’t think twice about, won’t be torn over, not like how split he feels over Iroh.  “Mongke. I’ll find Mongke.”  That’s who he’ll go after. That's who he has wanted to go after. Mongke hasn’t been found yet, but Jet will track him down. He has to. For his parents, for himself. And maybe, in small part, for Zuko, and for Iroh. Better Mongke meet his end with Jet's tiger blades than Iroh. And maybe with Mongke dead by his hands, he won’t feel the need to make Iroh pay as well. With this pivot in attention, Zuko’s expression softens, his brow relaxing. “Okay,” he says, and takes a few steps closer, arm extending towards him. “Okay. I can help with that.”

I know there's been a Jetko dryspell as of late, but please take this as proof that chapter four is for certain in the works.

[sooz-again]

The Price To Pay For Loss of Control

Part 2 of the Déjà Entendu series Sequel to The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows Summary:

Continuing where The Quiet Things left off, Jet adjusts to, of all things, life in the Fire Nation, while still trying to make sense of the brainwashing he'd endured and who Zuko is to him. But as things start to feel normal again, a trip to Ba Sing Se could drastically change everything.

Chapter two is now up! Again! Due to me realizing I was making a grave error in the direction the fic was going, decided to rewrite the first two chapters- and they're now now up! So give them a read and get yourself caught up!

[sooz-again]

This is too short for me to justify throwing on ao3, so have some shitty almost Jetko for Valentine's Day.

This is stupid. 

Jet knows that this is stupid, and still his feet carry him forward through the streets of the lower ring. Night has fallen and the streetlamps are on, but he is hardly the only one still out and about. Others hurrying home or guards out on patrol. Just an average night. 

It doesn’t feel average to Jet, though.

Why is hard to explain. It certainly doesn’t make any sense, and he isn’t one to put much stock into signs. He doesn’t do well with that, that there are just things magically falling into place in the universe around him, to give him gentle nudges in particular directions, to send him where he’s meant to be. No, that feels like some sort of wishy-washy spiritual nonsense that monks and airheaded girls would believe in. 

Not Jet. Jet has always relied on what he can see, what he can touch, what he can easily track and put two and two together. Not flippant things that make him feel a certain way.

And yet. 

And yet, today, he’s come across a tea merchant on the streets three times, and he’s mistaken a few different men for Lee. He could have sworn he heard Lee’s distinctive raspy voice at least once, and has spied a pair of dual blades on display in a shop window. All coincidences, sure, but Oma, the way his mind keeps going back to that guy from the ferry. 

Jet has kept tabs on him. Of course he has kept tabs on him; he’s had the feeling that Lee might come around, that he might change his mind about becoming a Freedom Fighter, and Jet needs to know what he was up to in that case. He’s given space, of course, hasn’t spoken to him more than a handful of times since the ferry; in the teashop once or twice, if Mushi greets him on the street. Give Lee space, is the idea. Give him space, and then let him come to him.

Except that has fallen to the wayside today. All those weird reminders of Lee, and then, when Jet cleverly and craftily swiped a small box of sweets from an unsuspecting vendor, he’d opened it up to find that it wasn’t a single pastry like he’d expected. No, inside this paper box– small enough to sit in the palm of his hand– were two yumil-gwa. 

Jet had paused in that moment, standing in an alley, back to the wall, staring down at the treats. He’d just wanted something sweet, something that felt special and decadent and meant for those with more money than he. He could enjoy those two sticky sweets, and on any other day, he would. 

This is stupid. This is the dumbest thing Jet could be doing; it’s something he would absolutely be teasing Longshot or Smellerbee for, if roles were reversed. 

But still. His feet carry him forward and straight to Lee’s flat. 

He could use the door, but Jet doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to run into Mushi, doesn’t want to have to explain himself. Spirits, he doesn’t want to have to explain himself to Lee. Is there even a way he could?

It’s stupid, Jet tells himself even as he scales the side of the building, digging his fingers deep into the gaps between the stones. It’s stupid. He’s stupid. 

But still. 

All those moments that made him think of Lee. Just happening to end up with two sweets instead of one. Even he can’t brush it all off as a coincidence. 

But when he reaches Lee’s window, open as it always is, Jet pauses for just a moment. This is stupid. He hasn’t spoken to Lee much. They’ve hardly seen each other. And now he’s coming up here with a small box of sweets to share?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But it feels even stupider to just leave now, to have climbed all the way up here, for absolutely no reason. He’s not going to climb in. He’s not going to go calling for him. But he has to do something. 

So, he does the only thing that makes sense to him: carefully, quietly, he puts the box of yumil-gwa on the window sill, and then makes his way back down the side of the building. Idiot. He’d wanted that treat. And now he’s left it on Lee’s window like some kind of deranged secret admirer. 

The only consolation is that Longshot and Smellerbee aren’t here to witness it. 

Feet back on solid ground, Jet looks back up to the window he’d been hovering outside of, and freezes. Looking back down at him is Lee. 

Stupid fucking idiot.

He’s not going to let Lee see him squirm. There is no good move here, but Jet does the best he can think of: he raises one arm up, offers a half-hearted wave, and then leaves. Deep in his chest, his heart is pounding, and his stomach twists as if he cares how Lee reacts, and it’s so….

Stupid.