Chapter Text
In hindsight, Zuko realized very clearly that he’d had no idea what he’d gotten himself into.
He hadn’t thought much of it when his uncle had called him back early from covering supply chain on the east side of the caldera. It was an important job, marking up illicit artillery inventory for international transport; a tedious task, slipping steel out of the country without the Nation noticing, and Zuko was meticulous about not having anything hit the water with the Family name on it unless he double checked the affidavits for the right discrepancies himself. Still, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take an extra long lunch to answer his uncle’s beckon.
One did not simply ignore a summons from the Dragon of the West.
(One did not simply ignore a summons from the Alpha of their Family.)
“Nephew,” Iroh had greeted him with little fanfare, all business when he’d arrived at the western villa. “I have an important task for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I have secured a deal with our friends in the South, a two year contract. There are stipulations.”
Zuko remembers having raised his eyebrow at his uncle’s choice of words, but he had ultimately waited in silence, knowing that his uncle would continue.
“Hakoda,” and Zuko had immediately recognized the name from the work he’d just left—the man’s signature had been all over their new batch of imports. “has agreed to an ammunition trade. He has charged his second Heir with the oversight and I have agreed to personally accommodate them. You will see to the security for the duration of their stay with care.”
You will. Zuko had simply wagered that the contract was worth more zeros than he cared to count if his uncle wanted him to handpick the soldiers. It hadn’t been the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.
“I have forwarded a dossier. I expect one in return detailing your choices before extraction.”
“Of course, Uncle.”
“Thank you Prince Zuko,” Iroh said, a clear dismissal. “Return to the docks, and do not forget to eat.”
Zuko had laughed. “Of course, Uncle.”
There had been a slim envelope waiting for him when he’d returned to his hotel suite out east, just as his uncle had promised there’d be. Zuko had never even bothered to open it—he’d opted to put it straight into his beta’s, Jet’s, hands and had gotten back to work on classifying their product for transport.
“You want me to babysit?” Jet stopped him to say.
“And Longshot,” Zuko had amended absently. “put Pipsqueak on chauffeur duty while you’re at it.”
“Is the Dragon paying?”
Zuko hadn’t bothered to answer. Of course his uncle was paying.
“Two years is a long time, boss.”
“That’s why he’s paying.” Zuko had said flatly.
“Right.” Jet drawled. “You sure you want me in on this? We’re busy.”
“Longshot will shadow—we’ll have to set him up in their building—and you’ll head. Besides, I will personally be running the checkpoints.” Zuko had looked up in earnest then. “This is sensitive work, Jet. I don’t trust anyone else.”
“Flatterer,” Jet chuckled.
Zuko had laughed with him and that had been the near end of it. Later that evening he would sign off on the profile report and have Smellerbee courier it across the city, and Jet would make himself busy briefing the boys.
For the next two days things were normal. And then he got a curious text from Jet.
Jet: You’re gonna want to see this one.
Jet: It’s a girl.
Zuko had merely blinked. So what? That made keeping them under wraps all the easier. Jet loved girls, and girls loved Jet.
Z: Don’t break it.
Jet: Fuck off! I’m serious.
Z: So am I.
Jet: We’re leaving the airport for Zawa’s, Dragon’s orders. Bring your ass.
Zuko hadn’t gone. Sure he was running their checkpoints, but if Hakoda’s Heir was meeting directly with his uncle’s secretary then he saw no reason for his presence on the premises of the tea house.
Things were in motion after that. Zuko had coaxed Mai into letting Tom-Tom take the opportunity to fill in on the grunt work for a few of Jet’s gaps—they had been on again; steady, dare he say; and Mai had previously insisted that he was old enough for the chance to prove himself to the Family. Little over a week had gone by with Tom-Tom shadowing him, and just four days before his first officially scheduled meet with his beta for a report on their Southern Heir, he got another text.
Jet: She’s a stubborn one.
Zuko knew what that meant, and he’d responded with both amusement and adjacent respect for their guest.
Z: Any girl who can ignore your annoying ass for a week straight must be worth her salt.
Jet: Oh, she’s worth it alright.
Zuko had raised his eyebrow at that, but again thought no more of it. Jet could do whatever the hell he wanted as long as he was careful, and he himself would meet the Southern Heir in the same detached business fashion that he’d met countless others and be on his way.
It was work for him and nothing else.
Then, on the next day, the one day of the week he’d been allowing himself to take reprieve in the comfort of his shared home with his beta, he’d walked up the porch steps and found himself nearly dropping his keys. A distinctly familiar scent had lingered at the threshold under Jet’s, muted and sweet.
Omega, instinct had instantly supplied.
The emerald green bike in the alley garage next to his own red set of wheels—Cherry—had told him that Jet was home. It hadn’t been until that moment at the door that he realized Jet had company.
“I’m Katara,” the omega had said after Jet introduced him. He’d almost missed her name, how deep he’d been lost in brilliant ocean eyes. “Heir Katara, Hakoda’s Daughter. I hope I’m not intruding?”
“You’re fine,” Zuko had rumbled. Very fine and perfectly polite. He’d ignored Jet’s I told you so smirk. It didn’t matter—he’d been with Mai and Jet clearly had a stake, considering the fact that already she was in their house. “Jet is treating you well?”
Katara had scrunched her nose, and the word cute had dared to cross his mind. “He’s a pain in the ass,” she’d said—maybe not so polite, after all—but then she’d slid sly blue eyes at the beta in question, telling Zuko everything he’d already known. “but I like him.”
“He is a pain in the ass,” Zuko had agreed flatly, jocose only to those who knew him. Jet had tsk’d, and Zuko had fixed his mouth to excuse himself, but then Katara’s laughter had reached his ears, and in the next second her bright smile had transfixed him into place.
“We’re kindred, you and I.” Katara said to him.
He hadn’t taken the words for more than face value. They were strangers and she was well mannered—but then he’d looked up and realized that he’d started to see her cropping up at the docks to do her job, Jet hot on her heeled boots like the well trained puppy he wasn’t. He’d see her leaving official company headquarters and shaking hands with board members. He’d started to see her leaving his sister’s parties, and buying up ounces at his mother’s apothecary. He’d see her on Jet’s arm at drug deals and drag races. He’d see her at the occasional business luncheon, schmoozing the pockets off of the most stubborn of elders and even more stubborn competitors. He'd see her sparring hand-to-hand, or playing drinking games on the dirty warehouse floor with his bandits during down time. And then he’d see her on his free days, sitting cozy in his house like she belonged there.
He’d see her in the crowd on dogfight nights, sitting next to Mai and cheering him on from the comfort of Jet’s lap. Her second time around the bleachers, he’d seen her pull water from thin air and heal his broken knuckles from the near-miss of a round he’d just won.
He’d see her, and then he looked up and realized that he’d seen her.
That, somehow, she’d wedged herself into his good graces, and into the nooks and crannies of his life. Somehow, somewhere, between drag races and mending bones, she’d become his friend.
“Best friend,” she corrected him, when he’d found himself at his kitchen counter nursing a bottle of gin with her. Mai had left him again, and he was quite positive that that was the genuine end of it. “‘m pretty sure that we’re best friends.”
He hadn’t had a best friend in years, Jet—passed out on the couch behind them—notwithstanding.
“If tha’s what you wanna call it.” Zuko hiccuped. “Kindred.”
Katara had giggled, and he’d realized then that they were both well on their way to being proper fucking wasted.
Zuko never got wasted with anybody.
“She could be Family,” he’d told his uncle over the phone a few months later.
“Just as well,” Iroh had said, then: “Hakoda has been impressed with our joint work. We have agreed to an extension on dealings, which I will discuss with you soon.”
Katara was there to stay. If his heart twisted happy, he would never tell.
“I will consider your request for initiation personally, Prince Zuko. Heir Katara is a beloved figurehead in her home, and to withhold her may be viewed as a slight.”
“She’s an asset, Uncle.” Zuko had said evenly.
“Yes, Nephew,” Iroh only laughed. “I can see that.”
Katara was there to stay. She’d be Family, and maybe even Pack.
He was happy, and he would never tell.
And then, one day—the last day of a rare weekend off—he’d looked up and saw that he had a message from his sister’s right hand.
Ty: Attachments - 1 image
***
Dawn finds Zuko waking with it as it always does: with lazy blinks against the velvet dimness of his room and the distant urge to go for a run. He shifts in the warm embrace of his bed with the vague sense that there is something different about today, and stops mid-stretch with a hiss.
Maybe today is different because all of him is awake, and painfully so at that.
His canines have elongated to press over his bottom lip, and there’s a terrible heat zinging through his blood that has the glands along his inner thighs pulsating with a dull ache. Zuko swipes his tongue over the curve of a sharp tooth and reaches down to grip his cock tightly by the base. A soft, strangled moan gets stuck in his throat. It’s been a while since he’s woken up in such a state; typically the product of a terrifyingly vivid dream—or a sopping wet bed partner who’d dared to overstay and has come to find him still very much naked under the peeking morning sun.
Zuko absently gives himself a solid stroke. He’s had neither in months. His bed is blessedly empty of other occupants and his dreams have been blessedly blank. So why..?
Through the wall his headboard rests against, a long, high pitched moan sounds through. In the air, the heady scent of muted sweetness.
Omega, instinct supplies instantly.
Another moan. Thick saliva pools in abruptly from his bottom canines at the pleasure-filled noise; at the faintest scent of sex creeping into his nostrils under the scarce sugary smell. Zuko swallows hard and sighs smoke through his nose, letting his cock free as if it’s burned him.
No wonder, he scowls to himself. This had happened the last time he’d forgotten to be gone when Jet had Katara over for the night, and he’s been careful about it for months on end by now. With a frustrated sigh Zuko springs out of bed and grabs the pair of shorts he’d left thrown over the edge of his postered frame, making a beeline for his bathroom and wishing his senses weren’t so sharp all the damn time. In the shower he stands under cool water that steams when it meets his skin, and he stays under the frigid spray until his blood loses its temper. By the time he’s stepping out he can feel the sun sitting higher in the sky, though more muted than usual for the late summer season.
Rain on the way, then.
Zuko ties up his hair, slips into a pair of jeans, and then dons a thin sweater at random, mind on the breakfast plans they’d all decided on after being out at Smellerbee’s race yesterday. He closes the door to his room and follows his nose out into the hall and around to the kitchen, where he spots Jet fully dressed and pouring a cup of coffee.
“Thought you’d be coming through the front door,” Jet jests knowingly by way of greeting. He hands Zuko the steaming mug, which Zuko accepts in grateful silence, though not without a glare. “anyway. Kitten’s knocked out and I gotta run.”
“What?” Zuko pauses mid-sip. “I thought we were getting breakfast.”
“It’s business, boss. Just a tiny gig. I mean, you can take Kat if you want but I think you know better than to wake a sleeping waterbender.”
Zuko rolls his eyes at Jet’s teasing grin and goes back to his coffee. “Whatever,” he says, waving his beta away. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Jet tosses over his shoulder, headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a few.”
Zuko seats himself at the kitchen counter, not bothering to move until he hears the distant rumble of Jet’s motorcycle coming to life. His gaze travels to the archway of the hall without his permission. Kitten’s knocked out, Jet had said, and Zuko does know better than to wake a sleeping waterbender—especially theirs.
Katara might be his best friend, but that didn’t make him immune to having his hands frozen to the nearest available object from water pulled out of thin air.
Zuko smiles fondly, foolishly and mindlessly, to himself at the thought. She’s always her most terrifying right when she wakes...
Finishing his coffee, Zuko busies himself by setting up in the den at the back of the house. Being the Heir to the Dragon of the West title, and in turn the biggest yakuza sect in the whole of Caldera City, did not afford him as much free time as others presumed to think, even on his off days. On off days he had logs to check and recruits to run background on; money to move and people to hunt down. The list of chores goes on, and it doesn’t even include his mandatory firebending lessons, his transport work around the docks, or the constant unavoidable Family Meetings.
As it stands, he’s still looking forward to a pretty relaxed day. That is, until he receives a volley of text messages while in the middle of a call with his cousin.
“Aniki,” Zuko says absently, closing his laptop and scooping up his phone. Something in his heart flips as the third message that had dropped down disappears. “let me call you back...”
Lu Ten’s voice pours out of the speaker, “sure thing, kid,” and then the line beeps twice.
Zuko stares at his notifications. The messages are from Ty Lee, his sister’s right hand. They’re friends, yeah, but she’s only ever texted him about business meets and party things.
This is neither of those.
Ty: Attachment - 1 image
Ty: ????!!!!???
It’s a picture of Jet, dressed in the same clothes he’d left in over an hour ago and leaning over a table with his tongue in some other girl’s mouth.
Zuko stares, dumbstruck.
Ty: Isn't he with K right now???
Ty: Wait. THEY’RE LEAVING.
Z: Let them.
Zuko hits send on the message before he even realizes that he’s typed it out. His phone chimes again but he drops it onto the coffee table next to his laptop, his hands coming up to cover his face as something angry and annoyed starts to unfurl in his chest.
Usually he wouldn’t be so bothered or shocked at Jet’s fickle ways—he’s the beta of the Western Prince’s Pack and attractive to boot, it’s really no surprise that he’s able to snag the attention of many at once. It’s certainly not the first time Jet’s been disloyal to a girl, or brought down the reign of other gangs because he wronged the Wrong One. Zuko’s cleaned up plenty of those messes before.
But this wasn’t any usual mess, and the girl around the corner isn’t any usual girl. She’s dangerous and smart and sharper than any blade when she’s upset; it’ll be a bloodbath when she finds out, and Zuko does not want to mediate that.
Zuko sighs. What will Katara—?
The second her name runs across his mind the weight of the matter really sinks in. A heavy fissure of pain stings at his heart.
“Oh, shit.” Zuko drags his hands down his face. “Shit. Katara...”
Not just Katara, but Hakoda’s Daughter. His best friend for almost a year now. His gaze flicks to the wall ahead of him as if to peer through it; to remember that if he focuses his chi just enough he could track her bodyheat to check and see if she’s having nightmares again or still sleeping soundly. To remember that he knows her.
He knows her. Knows exactly how badly this is going to upset her and none of it is going to be pretty—because he knows Jet, too, and Jet always plays the innocence card first no matter what kind of trouble he gets into—and Katara, Heir Katara, hates a goddamn liar. He’s seen what she does to liars.
More than that, it’s his job to protect her, as Heir to the Dragon of the West and then twice over as her friend. Thrice over, for other, newer, more secret reasons.
No, Katara isn’t any usual girl. She’s important. She’s his, and she’s definitely the Wrong One.
Outrage sparks in his chest on her behalf. Is Jet trying to ruin them? To betray their trust? Their friendship? Their reputation, and Katara’s chances of agreeing to be formally accepted into the Family?
Into his Pack? Their Pack?
An agitated growl sounds out from the back of Zuko’s throat. In seconds he is on his feet pacing, wild and snappy like a caged armadillo-tiger.
“I’ll kill him,” he seethes incredulously to himself, fingers threading through his hair and down to cover his face again. “How could—Agni! I’ll kill him.”
Zuko continues to pace the length of the den, trying to bring his outrage to a simmer without luck. No matter how many laps he completes the anger just boils right back up. Jet knows how much he’s come to care about Katara—they’ve had long talks about it, some drunk, some sober, some more embarrassingly heartfelt than others, but all rendering the same: Jet would go against the grain for that girl, and Zuko would follow him happily into the line of fire if it meant she’d be safe and sane. She’s ours, they’d vowed. Theirs.
Pack, hopefully, they’d agreed.
Except, of course, Jet is a fucking liar who couldn’t give a shit long enough to keep it in his pants.
Sparks dance out with the hiss of smoke he belts toward the ceiling, and for the nth time he finds himself turning to stare at the wall.
Fuck no, he can’t let Katara find out.
He has to tell her. He’s her friend and it’s the right thing to do.
He breezes out of the den and into the kitchen, headed towards the living room, only to stop when he spots the place on the counter where he’s forgotten his empty mug. His lip curls back in a snarl as he remembers this morning—how casually Jet had made his way about—and then to earlier, when he’d been coaxed out of sleep by the sound of—
Another growl builds in his throat, but it’s cut short as he steps into the hallway.
Zuko staggers backward, lightheaded and rearing as his canines suddenly jut from his gums. The action forces his mouth open, allowing the air to hit his tongue. Every instinct in his body roars awake at the new scent assaulting him. A sugary, blackberry scent that overrides his senses; like fritters or pie, piping hot and wet with fresh glaze, sticky and warm and mingling in with the oozing gush of crushed fruit; barely there but still just so obviously untouched; unmated; so cloying and sweet and absolutely begging for him to succumb to its beckon... Zuko slaps a hand over his face to keep from sticking his nose in the air like a newborn puppy, even as a needy groan builds up in the back of his throat.
Heat, instinct howls, and for the longest of seconds all he can imagine is russet skin under his lips and blue eyes looking up at him; mouth watering berries on the tip of his tongue, tart and dulcet. All he can imagine is please, alpha and the feeling of his canines sinking into ready, tender flesh.
Unbidden, Zuko inches forward.
“No,” Zuko scrambles backwards until his back hits the wall by the front door. “Calm down, Zuko,” he tells himself, but it’s too late. His jeans are tight and ultraviolet bleeds into his vision, his senses sharpening by the second as his instinct threatens to take over. “it’s Katara,” he mutters in mantra as he focuses his breath, though given how he’s been feeling about her for the better half of the summer it probably doesn’t actually help. “it’s Katara. It’s Katara. It’s just Katara...”
And yet that is just the issue. In his year and a half of knowing Katara, he has been privy to an array of her scents—happy, hungry, hateful, hardheaded; he’s as familiar with her as if she had always been in his world—and he has never once caught the scent of heat on her before.
While as a friend he has become knowledgeable enough with her use of the special dampeners she has shipped all the way from her homeland, he has never crossed the line to ask her why...
Zuko feels something pool in his belly, the heavy, hot oil-slick feeling banishing his line of thought as another thick wave of sugary blackberry floods his nose. He chokes down a groan, hating his instinct for unabashedly loving every second. The smell of heat on Katara is fresh to him; new and intoxicating in a way he isn’t sure that he could readily explain, and the dots that could easily be connected with rationale become smears on the metaphorical paper. The rich berry aroma nearly makes him zone all the way out, and he can think of little more than the way his mouth is watering.
His voice comes out as a guttural, subaudio sound that not even he recognizes.
“It’s just Katara...”
Instinct writhes within him, petulantly gnashing against his conscience as he denies himself the pleasure of crouching low to the ground and pursuing Katara’s scent right at its source.
“Fuck,” Zuko curses, another guttural note.
His breath of fire is little more than a helpless flicker against the saliva pooling in from his canines. In what feels like hours of breathing his teeth finally retract and he stops seeing purple, some modicum of control returning to him now that he’s let his nose adjust to the saccharine scent teasing the air.
Still startled with himself, he tightens his fists until pain pricks his palms, minutely grounding him. Why on Agni’s green earth did he have such a strong reaction? He’s no stranger to omegas, nor heats and how to help handle them should the need arise—he leads a close knit crew of yakuza and heads his own Pack; he leaves his scent in the dens of his people on a regular, has even gone as far to step in for heats and ruts on the necessary occasion—but this? This is the first time the scent of heat has made his teeth sprout from his gums without so much as a thought. This is the first time his baser self has snapped at the reins so abruptly. In that moment he feels a dizzying shift in the back of his senses, and he takes in more measured gulps of air in order to dispel the onslaught of feeling, pressing himself hard into the wall until he’s sure that he can proceed.
From what he can smell the heat has only just started—but he’ll be fucking damned if he takes any chances on Katara like that.
His phone chimes from his back pocket, belatedly reminding him of why he’d even been heading to her in the first place, leaving him no real time to further examine the details and the weight of his blatant reaction. Zuko looks at his phone, and all at once the anger returns to him. It’s a message from Jet. He doesn’t dare to read it.
He ignores the vapor pouring off of him and starts down the hall in determination. He has to tell her now, before she finds out the hard way.
She’s just waking up when he barrels down the door to Jet’s room, in nothing more than an overly large tee and one bare leg out of the blankets.
“Zu—?” Katara barely realizes he’s there before he tosses his phone, because stepping any closer would be dangerous. Her scent alone at his spot from the door makes him swallow pooling saliva—makes him want to snarl, bundle her up and take her away and protect, and claim—but the fact that Jet’s scent is mingled in hers—cheating, fucking, rat bastard who is going to get absolutely pummeled—serves to make his anger outweigh the rest.
Katara picks up his phone and makes a tiny sound of pained confusion.
“Break up with him.” Zuko snaps, words he doesn’t exactly mean to say—he’s been so careful not to intrude on his friends as a couple, but now everything before him is tearing at the seams. Katara jerks like she’s been hit, but then she is crying—“Where did you get this?!”—a heart wrenching cry that shakes her hunched shoulders; scents and sounds that unlock something terrifyingly primal in his bones.
He’d expected the sharp scent of anger, of familiar sharp spice and ginger, not the pungent scent of rotten fruit. Of distress.
Omega is hurt, his instinct bellows. Fix it, fix it, fix it, fix it—
“Shit,” Zuko curses under his breath. He hadn’t really thought of what to do after telling her, either. “you weren’t supposed to cry, Kat—”
She reaches for him, and for the most split of seconds Zuko packs away his rage and his brimming instinct enough to go to her, but then the front door clicks open, and before he knows it he’s got fistfuls of leather and ultraviolet has started to leak back into his sight.
Crack.