zuko×reader one shot, vigilante au
“Fuck… fuck, fuck, shit.”
The curses tears out of him the moment the webbing jerks tight from his wrists, pale strands snapping firm against the iron lamppost like they’ve got a personal grudge. A second later, they haul him upward with brutal force, and he slams into the brick wall hard enough to knock the breath right out of him. Boots scraping for purchase where there ought to be none, he catches himself on the sheer stone and keeps going, because apparently gravity is just a suggestion for him.
Below him, the city doesn’t care. The streets hum on, busy and oblivious. Cars crawl through traffic, headlights smearing across wet pavement. Somewhere down there, a little kid no older than three points up at the sky with all the wonder in the world, thumb half-out of his mouth. His mother doesn’t look up once. She only pushes the stroller faster.
He vaults the rooftop in one clean, desperate motion.
Up here, the wind bites harder. October has finally settled in, dragging cold air and rattling windows behind it. His hoodie snaps at his back as he runs, shoulders forward, feet pounding over gravel and tar until he slams through the rooftop door with a crack of splintering wood.
The stairwell swallows him whole. Dim light. Tight walls. His footsteps hit the concrete in a frantic rhythm as he takes the stairs two at a time, already reaching for the key in his pocket, fingers clumsy with panic.
The lock resists him just long enough to be cruel, then gives way with a soft, blessed click.
He bursts into the apartment like he’s escaping a fire.
Aang sits cross-legged on the bed, controller loose in one hand, the blue flicker of the TV washing over his face. He doesn’t even flinch.
Zuko yanks the red-and-black mask off his face like it insulted him personally and tosses it aside. It lands in a heap on the bed as he starts shedding one life for another in a rush. Hoodie off. Gloves off. Suit gone.
What’s left is not much better. Wrinkled black trousers and a shirt that still carries the faint stain of last night’s cheap Chinese takeout, the soy sauce dried into the fabric.
“Should I wear a tie?” Zuko mutters, mostly to himself.
Aang pauses mid-bite, popcorn hovering near his mouth. “Where are you going?”
Aang tilts his head, studying him like he’s an interesting species of idiot. “Cute. Then no.”
Zuko exhales, slow and shaky. “Good.”
Aang grins. “So who is she? This new flame of yours?”
“Girl from the decathlon team,” Zuko says, tugging at his sleeves, trying to flatten wrinkles that refuse to die. “Captain, actually.”
“Cool. Katara’s probably seen her at regionals.”
Zuko glances over. “Your girlfriend swims, right?”
Another handful of popcorn disappears into Aang’s mouth, entirely unconcerned with the fact that Zuko’s soul is currently exiting his body.
Dark hair, stubborn as ever. That birthmark over his left eye. Once, it had been all he could see when he looked at himself. Now it’s just there. Part of the face. Part of the story. Not the whole thing.
“How do I look?” he asks.
Aang doesn’t even look up at first. “Like a washer just spat you out.”
“Mhm.” Now Aang looks at him, chewing thoughtfully.
“God,” Zuko mutters, dragging a hand down his face.
He fixes his collar. His hair. Then fixes it again, because apparently stress has decided to live in his fingertips.
“You could just…” Aang waves lazily toward him. “Go as Spider-Man. You’re way more confident with the mask on.”
Zuko shoots him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “I cannot walk up to a girl and say, ‘Hello, I’m Spider-Man.’ What am I, an idiot?”
Aang grins wider. “Worked pretty well with that cute journalist.”
“That’s different,” Zuko snaps. “That’s-” He stops, scowling. “You’re a hollow gourd.”
“I’m sure she’d fall for you,” Aang says, blissfully unconcerned.
Zuko bends to grab his shoes and freezes.
Aang follows his gaze down to his feet. Guilt hits his face so plainly it almost counts as a confession. “Uh… yeah.”
They stare at each other.
Then Zuko lets out one long, broken breath. “Unbelievable.”
Aang shrugs. “You weren’t using them.”
“I am using them. Now. Tonight.”
“Well…” Aang waggles one foot. “Too late?”
Zuko steps forward and holds out a hand. “Take them off.”
Aang sighs like a martyr heading to his doom and starts unlacing them. “You know,” he says, working the knot loose, “if this goes badly, you’ll wish you’d worn the mask.”
Zuko snorts. “If this goes badly, I’m never leaving this room again.”
Aang hands over the left shoe. “That bad?”
“No,” Aang says, settling back against the bed. “But I know you. And you’ll either crash and burn spectacularly…” he tosses the right shoe toward him, “…or somehow pull it off and pretend you meant to.”
Zuko shakes his head, though a faint smile keeps tugging at his mouth. He laces up the Jordans and stands, shoulders squaring like he’s preparing for battle instead of a date.
“Right,” he says. “I’m going.”
Aang gives him a lazy salute. “Try not to die.”
The door slams behind him like thunder.
For a moment, he lingers on the landing, breath tight in his chest.
He could take the bus. He should take the bus. Normal people take the bus.
Then he turns around and goes back inside.
Aang doesn’t even look up. “Changed your mind?”
“No,” Zuko says, reaching for the mask again. “Just getting there faster.”
And then he’s gone again.
Out in the cooling dusk, he pulls the mask down and climbs with that strange, reckless certainty he only ever finds up high. Rooftops welcome him back like old grudges. He leaps.
The city opens beneath him.
Rivers of light. Distant voices. A thousand lives moving below without noticing the one cutting through the dark overhead. His web catches, pulls, releases. Again. Again. Faster, higher, cleaner. The wind tears at him, and he loves it for that. Up here, there’s no doubt. No hesitation. Just motion.
Near the cinema, he drops into a narrow alley, boots whispering against damp brick. He pulls off the mask and stuffs it into his pocket, then steps out into the light... and sees you.
You’re just beyond the theater glow, head bowed, music murmuring faintly through your earphones. A Diamond Rio (the music player) rests in your hand, thumb brushing over it absently while you watch your shoes like they’ve got secrets to tell.
The most beautiful girl he has ever seen.
Zuko straightens so fast it’s almost comical, shoving the mask deeper into his pocket and wiping his hands on his trousers like that’s going to do anything about the fact that they’ve suddenly got very sweaty.
His heart stutters so hard it should probably be illegal. “Hey,” he answers, and the word comes out weird, like it had to force its way past his throat. “You, uh…” He gestures vaguely, then hates himself immediately for it. “You got tickets, or…?”
He lets out a breath that is almost a laugh, almost relief. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense. Sorry I’m late.”
You smile, faintly amused by his nerves. “No problem. I’ve waited longer.”
Heat climbs up his neck at once. “So,” he says, because if he doesn’t keep talking he may simply evaporate on the spot. “Cinema.”
“Unless you’ve changed your mind,” you tease.
“No! No, of course not,” he says too fast. “I love movies. Donnie Darko. I mean, Jake Gyllenhaal. Great… actor…” The sentence dies slowly and painfully in the air.
You smile anyway. “Let’s go.”
He nods, deeply grateful that you seem too kind to mock him yet, and falls into step beside you.
He’s already seen the film, technically. Studied it, even, just in case. He’d wanted to be prepared for this. For you. It turns out preparation is useless when the actual thing is walking beside him. You say hello and his brain immediately starts smoking.
“Two tickets for Donnie Darko,” you say, pulling him back to earth.
You reach for your wallet. Zuko pats his pockets. Right. Left. Back. Nothing.
But you’ve already paid, smiling like it’s nothing at all.
Zuko finds five crumpled dollars in his shirt pocket and clutches them like an emergency beacon. “I’ll get popcorn,” he says quickly. “And a drink. For you.”
If Zuko had imagined the worst, the evening still manages to be worse in ways he never thought possible.
The theater swallows them in darkness and buttery air, the smell of popcorn thick as fog. He sits beside you stiff as a man awaiting sentencing, popcorn balanced on his knee, hands hovering uselessly because they do not seem to belong to him anymore.
“So… uh…” he starts, then immediately wants to die. Fantastic beginning. Truly. A sentence that should win awards for panic.
You glance at him, patient.
“The… cinematography,” he tries again, lowering his voice as the previews start rolling. “It’s… good.”
You blink. “You’ve seen it already?”
“No!” he says at once. Too quickly. “I mean, heard. From people. Many people. Who watch… films.”
You smile, just a little. Not unkindly, which somehow makes it worse. Then the lights dim further and he movie starts.
For a while, there’s blessed silence, and he clings to it like it’s the last solid thing in the world. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. And somehow it becomes unbearable.
He leans a little closer. Casual, he tells himself, though nothing about him feels casual.
“So… Jake Gyllenhaal,” he whispers.
You turn toward him, confused. “What about him?”
“He’s… very… Jake Gyllenhaal in this,” Zuko says.
He nods like he’s just contributed something meaningful to the conversation, then turns back to the screen and wishes the darkness might swallow him whole.
A little later, his hand brushes yours in the popcorn bucket.
This is it. This is how things begin, isn’t it? Hands brushing. Fingers lingering. He’s seen it. Read it. Studied it in far less terrifying movies.
Do not pull away, his brain scolds him.
Instead, his reflexes commands him to jerk back like he’s been shocked, and a small cascade of popcorn rains straight into your lap.
“It’s okay,” you say, laughing softly as you brush the kernels away.
Laughing. At him? Maybe. Probably not, but that’s not how it feels to him anyway.
“Great,” he mutters under his breath. “Perfect.” Damn you, spider senses.
Later, he tries again. This time, he’s going to be bold. Bold men do not whisper about cinematography and shy away at the touch. Bold men act. Bold men seize the moment. Carpe Diem!
He turns toward you, heart hammering, and reaches for your hand too fast, too stiffly. His fingers close around yours. You blink at him. He blinks back.
You smile, though it wobbles a little now. “Hi…?”
He lets go at once, as if only just realizing what he’s done. “Sorry. I- thought there was… uh…”
“…a bug,” he finishes weakly.
“In the middle of the cinema?”
You study him for a second longer, then turn back to the screen, though the corner of your mouth is still lifted with faint, bemused amusement.
By the time the credits roll, Zuko feels like he’s survived a war and lost it on every possible front. His shoulders ache from holding himself together this long. His thoughts are a mess of every stupid thing he’s said and every second he wishes he could erase.
The lights rise slowly. People stir while standing to leave. Zuko sits there for one beat too long, gathering what little dignity he has left.
“Well,” he says at last, forcing composure into his voice. “That was… a film.”
You laugh again, soft and real, and get to your feet. “It was.”
He stands too and follows you into the aisle, uncertain, unsteady, like the floor might suddenly vanish beneath him.
Outside, the night air hits cool and sharp. You walked side by side beneath the streetlamps, the city dim and quiet around you. Zuko keeps his hands at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to do something, anything useful. Words have failed him once already. He doesn’t trust them not to betray him again.
“You’re quieter now,” you say at last, glancing over at him.
“I’ve said enough,” he mutters.
A small smile touches your lips. “You weren’t that bad.”
“Not that bad?” He repeats, like he’s testing the phrase for hidden meaning.
“Yes,” you say, turning to face him beneath the lamplight. “Just… a little intense.”
That gets the faintest ghost of a smile out of him. He starts walking again.
“I don’t usually do this,” he says after a moment.
He grimaces. “If that’s what this was.”
You laugh softly. “What did you think it was?”
That earns him a real laugh this time, and it hangs between you, warm despite the cold.
“You are. Just not on purpose.”
“Maybe,” you say. “But I liked it.”
Then you’re at your door. “Well,” you say, turning toward him. “This is me.”
God, say something, he tells himself.
Instead, when you step closer, close enough that he can see the faint cloud of your breath in the cold, his mind goes completely blank.
“You have… good… door placement,” he says.
You stare at him for half a beat. Then you laugh again.
Zuko closes his eyes briefly. “I’m going to stop talking now.”
“Good idea,” you say, still smiling.
And you lean in. It’s only a kiss on the cheek, light and brief, warm against the cold night.
“’Night,” he manages, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.
You slip inside. The door clicks shut behind you. Silence follows. Zuko stands there, unmoving.
It bursts out of him sharp and victorious before he can stop it. His hand snaps up on instinct. A web shoots straight from his wrist and hits the metal bin nearby with a wet thwip. He blinks.
The bin tips over with a thunderous crash, spilling its contents across the pavement. Somewhere above, a window creaks open.
The mask is on in a heartbeat. Another web fires toward the rooftops and he’s gone, laughter trailing behind him as he disappears into the night.
You close the door carefully with both hands, wincing faintly at the click of the latch. The house is quiet. No lights on except a faint glow from the kitchen.
You slip off your shoes and carry them softly across the floor, careful with each step. The kitchen table waits in the dark.
Then you see the newspaper.
It’s spread open, creased like someone has read it once, then twice, then one more time for good measure. The headline sits there in bold black print, glaring up at you from the page:
vivi's space: this was purely out of boredom based on that edit I posted on the evil website (which will be shared here as well). hope you liked it xx.
