you are never coming home, never coming home

by dont_leaf_me_alone

Summary:

In the aftermath of a fatal car accident that took the life of his girlfriend, Jet struggles with guilt and grief.

(two-shot, role reversal in the second part)

Chapter 1: at the top of my lungs, in my arms

​​​The silence is suffocating. Or maybe it's the dust covering everything; Jet can't be sure. Maybe it's neither, maybe it's the pain in his chest, like a band of steel wrapped around his ribs and crushing the air out of him. 

Or just the dust, he thinks, watching more of it drift across the sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains. They were — he was supposed to clean the house, he vaguely recalls. He was supposed to do a lot of things. His limbs feel too heavy to even get up off the couch for long. 

On the coffee table, his phone buzzes, receiving a text; the battery, amazingly, still hasn't run out. He wishes it would, so the guilt of leaving every call and text unread would leave him alone. 

He sighs, letting his tired eyes rest for a few moments. His mouth feels bone dry; he can't remember the last time he had a drink. The water bottle on the coffee table doesn't have a drop in it, so it must've been hours ago. He doesn't move to get up and refill it. 

The doorbell buzzes, the same way it did yesterday, and two days before that, and every couple of days for the last two weeks; he ignores it, the same way he has for the last week. The sound rings in his head, helping along the pain that only just started to build behind his eyes. Great. Thanks a lot. 

He expects the bell to stop, for the footsteps in the hallway outside to retreat back toward the stairs just like everyone else had. 

Instead, he hears a click of a key in the lock, and the bottom of the door scrapes across the mat tacked to the floor. Jet's tired mind doesn't fully register it until the door's already closed again. From the angle he's laying at, he can see ripped black jeans, dirty combat boots and the bottom of a plaid miniskirt. Smellerbee.

"Jet?" she says. It's strange, hearing another human voice after what must have been more than a week of being here alone. She doesn't linger on the doormat, instead leaving muddy boot prints on the wood floor as she marched over to the couch. "Jet, are you awake?"

He flinches; her voice sounds piercing against the quiet of the apartment.

"What do you want, Bee?" he asks, words feeling foreign in his mouth. 

"I want to make sure you're still alive." Smellerbee kneels down in front of the couch; she presses the back of her hand against his forehead. "God, you look awful. Haven't you been taking care of yourself?" 

Jet's mind can't work fast enough to come up with a response. Smellerbee sits back on her heels, looking at him with a frown; it softens a little after a moment.

"The funeral was yesterday," she says softly. "They couldn't wait on it any longer. You started some talk, not showing up. Hahn said some shit about you. Longshot told him where he could shove it." 

Jet can hear the reproach hidden under the words; the you should have been there, the why weren't you?

"I'm sorry," he sighs. "I didn't know."

"Maybe you would've if you'd read the texts." The reproach isn't hidden at all this time; Jet sighs again, turning his face into the cushions. 

"I'm sorry," he repeats, not knowing what else to say. I didn't think anyone would notice. I break everything I touch and I didn't want to ruin anything else. I can't make myself move in a world where she's gone. I don't deserve to. 

Smellerbee sighs, laying her hand on the back of his neck. "I was worried about you," she says, choked up. "I'm still worried about you. Have you even moved off the couch in a week?"

Shame burns in his stomach; or maybe it's the cheap whiskey he had last night. "Not really," he says. 

"That explains a lot..." Bee runs her hand through his undoubtedly greasy hair, pulling it away with audible disgust. "Jet, you can't go on like this. Have you even been sleeping, or eating anything?" She pauses, eyeing the box on the table. "Other than cheap takeout?"

He hasn't, and the food's left over from two nights ago, but he doesn't need to tell her that. 

She sits down on the edge of the couch, pulling his head into her lap. 

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I know it's harder for you." 

No fucking kidding, he thinks, scoffing humorlessly. He closes his eyes, running his fingers over the scratchy wool of her skirt. Her hand rubs his back with a gentle pressure, fingertips working the sore muscles at the base of his neck. How long was he really laying here? 

His eyes sting, tears filling them to the brim. He doesn't deserve this, and where he should feel annoyed at her for butting in, all he can feel is gratitude he can't put into words. "This is supposed to be the other way around," he manages to say, in a trembling, shaky voice. Smellerbee huffs softly, pushing his hair out of his face. 

"I owe you the favor," she says. "Just this once."

He sighs. "Just once." 

"Mm-hm." She sighs, patting his shoulder. "Come on. You need a shower and some food and water."

Jet sits up, muscles and joints protesting the motion. His head swims, and he briefly considers throwing up. Smellerbee puts her arms around him, holding him up as he sways on his feet. 

"Alright. One step at a time," she says.

"I know how to walk," he snaps, with less bite than he really wanted. She looks at him sadly, keeping her arms around him and guiding him to the bathroom. 

Bee turns around while he undresses, piling the clothes in the corner. The air feels like ice on his skin. He gets behind the shower curtain quickly, turning on the hot water. 

"I'll get out some clothes for you," Bee says.

Her boots clump across the floor, and the door closes with a creak. Jet leans against the cold shower wall and lets the scalding spray wash over him, ignoring how the water hitting the floor sounds like rain on a car roof, pretending the shrill screech of the rickety pipes doesn't remind him of tires spinning out on wet asphalt. 

How many times has he stood in here, running his hands through her hair, sharing the warmth of their bodies in this tiny space? How many more times could he have shared that with her, if he hadn't been so self-absorbed and selfish, if he'd thought about her before it was too late. 

The shaking sobs come on without warning, and he has to sit on the floor so he won't fall over. He shivers, vulnerable to the cold air with the hot water no longer directly on him. 

He can't bring himself to care. The world's cold now. He may as well get used to it.

​​​​Jet's shaken out of his daze by the door creaking open. Bee clumps across the tiles again. 

"Jet? You okay in here?" she asks. 

He quickly composes himself, taking a sharp breath in. "I'm fine," he says. It echoes off the walls, repeating in his ears; the repetition doesn't make it true. 

Smellerbee pulls the curtain back. The cold rushes him, and he sucks in another gasp, his nails digging into his palms as he clenches his fists. 

Bee sighs, her skirt rustling as she kneels down, the palm of her hand hot against his upper back. "Hey," she says, gentler than he's used to. "Come on, you can't sit here in the cold."

"I know," Jet chokes out, but he doesn't have the strength to move. She runs a hand through his hair, droplets of chilled water hitting his back.

"Do you want me to help?" 

He tries to shake his head, but the movement sends a jolt of pain up his neck. Smellerbee sighs, and he hears the clatter of bottles as she searches through them; a moment later her blunt fingertips are massaging his scalp with a pressure that sends a warm, slightly dizzy feeling down his spine. 

"Tilt your head back," Bee says, taking her hands away, and he does, shutting his eyes while she rinses his hair, before repeating the whole process with the conditioner he doesn't normally use; midway through this, she pauses, switching the sprayer setting to a stronger pressure. Jet hadn't even noticed it wasn't on the usual setting he used, that it was still the same way she'd left it before they left the apartment that day. 

Was that why they were fighting? She'd taken too long getting ready, they were late to some appointment — god, had he really been upset over something so stupid?

"You're gonna have to do the rest yourself, okay?" Bee says. "I'll start some tea and get some food made."

He sighs, nodding his head. The shower curtain swings shut again, and he laboriously unfolds himself from the floor, letting the water rush over him. 

After he's done his best to wash off the grease and sweat of the last few days, and the water runs cold, he shuts it off, climbing out. His hand hovers over the blue flannel robe at the top of the stack, remembering how she'd beamed at him when he opened it at their anniversary, how she'd ended up wearing it just as often as him; finally he pulls it on, too tired to bother with the other clothes. The floor freezes his feet as he goes to the kitchen. 

Smellerbee's standing by the stove, tapping her nails on the counter as she supervises the pot on top of the stove heating up water. Jet can smell bread toasting in the oven, and his stomach gives a growl in response. As he slides into a seat at the kitchen island, Bee brings over a glass of water and a couple of pills he recognizes as painkillers. He mutters a thanks, downing the pills with a sip of the water. The moment it touches his tongue, he realizes how dry his mouth is, and within a few moments the glass is empty. 

There's a silence while Bee finishes making the toast, buttering them each two slices and sitting across from him with her plate. The tea steeps in two mugs on the island between them.

"Who all was there yesterday?" He asks once he's eaten as much as he can, his voice still grinding its way out of his dry throat.

"Yue's family." Jet flinches, her name opening the wound all over again. "Aang, Katara. Sokka and his girlfriend. Hahn's family." Smellerbee sighs, brushing crumbs off her hands. "A few people I didn't recognize."

Jet looks down, picking at the peeling fake wood surface with his fingernail. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I...I couldn't..."

Bee lays her hand over his, stilling its motion. "It's okay," she says, instead of all the things she should be saying, should be screaming at him. "They don't blame you, you know," she adds softly. "It's not your fault."

Jet can't stop himself from snapping, "Whose is it, then? I was behind the wheel, I started the fight." Smellerbee breaks eye contact, looking down at the table. "I can take responsibility for my own mistakes."

"It was raining, Jet. You hydroplaned. It could have happened to anyone," she says, too calmly. "Just because you were fighting at the time doesn't make you responsible."

Jet glares at Smellerbee. "Stop making excuses for me. It doesn't change anything, and it won't bring her back." He pushes away from the table, getting up. "I think you should leave."

Smellerbee gets up too, frowning. "No. I'm not gonna let you sit here and waste away while you blame yourself for this."

"Yes, you are, now get out!" 

"Damn it, Jet! You're being an idiot!" Smellerbee shouts. "I'm trying to help you. I'm not leaving so you can die here because you won't keep yourself alive. And I'm not letting you take the blame for something that's not your fault."

​​​​​​Jet's vision clouds, and he blinks furiously to clear it. "Then whose? I'm the one who should have paid attention, I should've — I shouldn't have been mad at her over something so stupid. I started the fight and I have to live with the fact that she fucking died because of it! If one of us had to, I wish it would've been me."

Bee's breath catches; the look on her face sends a stab of guilt right to his heart. He's not supposed to put all this on her; he's supposed to be the strong one, the smart one, the responsible one. He shouldn't be making life harder for her. You just can't do anything right, can you?

"No," she whispers, stepping forward and grabbing his arm. "Jet, it shouldn't have been either of you, it shouldn't have happened. How do you think she would feel in your position?"

"Probably grateful to be rid of the sorry loser who made her life a nightmare."

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows it's a lie. Yue forgave her last asshole fiancé after he openly admitted to using her for her family's money and connections; she forgave her father after he pushed her to marry the guy in the first place.

She forgave Jet, time and time again, for losing his grip over small things, for letting his bad days get the better of him. She always gave him space, she took the time to understand his point of view, despite the massive differences in their upbringing and backgrounds. She was better than he's ever been.

"You and I both know that's not true," Smellerbee says. She sighs, squeezing his arm. "Look...you need time. I know. But you have to take care of yourself or nothing's ever going to get better."

"Smellerbee —"

"No, listen to me." She looks him in the eye. "If nothing else, I owe this to you, alright? You've — you've been there for me my whole life. You've never once given up on me, or let me give up on myself. I'd be a shitty friend if I didn't return the favor. And you'd be a hypocrite if you didn't let me."

Something in her eyes tells Jet she's not giving up. Through his frustration, he manages to feel proud; he'd be disappointed in himself if a kid he'd had so much say in upbringing turned out anything less than completely mule-headed. 

Maybe there's something in his eyes, too, because Smellerbee takes his hand. "Just promise you'll try. Please. It's not going to be overnight, but...you just can't go on like this."

Jet swallows, the tears in her eyes weakening his resolve. 

"Okay," he says, his mouth feeling dry. "I'll try."

Bee wraps her arms around him, clinging on tightly. "It'll be okay." 

​​​​​He doesn't know that it will; he doesn't feel like it will. But right now...he can't fight any more. He's so tired. 

"I'll try," he repeats, wrapping his arms around her. She's shaking as much as he is, and clings tighter when he returns her embrace. 

He'll try. If nothing else he'll fucking try, if only for the idea that someday things will be better, if only to know he won't be letting down someone else who relies on him. Fuck it, he's done worse, harder things for less. 

"Come on," Bee says gently, pulling him back to the island. "You need to drink your tea and get some sleep." 

He sits, and sips the cup of bitter tea she sets in front of him, and when she leaves to fix the bed, he lets his tears fall until there's nothing left. 

Chapter 2: and all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me

The room feels impossibly cold for the middle of summer, like Yue could breathe and it would crystallize, hanging in the air. If only she could breathe, around the icy feeling inside her. In her lungs, in her limbs. All of her is cold and numb.

She blinks slowly, laboriously; her eyes feel raw, sticky; she can't remember if she slept at all last night, or at all this week. It's all a blur. 

It's too quiet. She can hear a clock ticking in the neighbors' apartment, raindrops falling outside the kitchen window — echoing, echoing. Footsteps in the hall. Her own heartbeat, too loud in her head, bringing on a pounding headache. So when the doorbell rings, she almost jumps out of her skin, only her bone-deep lethargy keeping her in place. 

She takes a deep breath, shutting her eyes tightly and trying to calm her strung-out nerves. It's just a doorbell, she scolds herself. ​​​​​It's not like she hasn't heard it plenty of times this past week; she should be used to it. She listens for the footsteps to retreat again, or for a door down the hall to shut. 

Neither one happens. Instead, a key turns in the lock, and the door swings open. 

"Yue?"

Suki's voice is soft and tremulous, and hearing another human voice for the first time in days sends a wave of emotion through Yue; mingled relief and disappointment. For a fleeting moment she'd let herself hope this had all been a bad dream. 

Her next breath comes out a sob, and Suki's footsteps cross the room quickly. 

"Yue," she sighs, the couch sinking slightly as she sits down on the edge of a cushion. "I...I thought I should check up on you. Nobody heard from you for a few days."

Yue knows that. Knows they must have been worried, or at least wondering where she was. She can't explain why; not without sounding pathetic for letting her phone die without a charger because she can't go in their room to get it. Can hardly bring herself to get up at all.

"I'm sorry," she says, and it comes out weak and broken, her throat too dry to summon more than a croak. Suki's hand rests on her shoulder, gentler than she deserves.

"Have you eaten anything?" she asks softly. Yue manages a shake of her head. "What about water?" After another negative answer, Suki sighs. 

"Okay. Let's get you something to drink, and then I'll fix you something to eat, and get you showered. Is that okay?"

Yue shrugs one shoulder, hardly registering the question as such. Suki pats her arm, her weight taken off the couch. 

"Let's sit you up," she says, wrapping an arm under Yue's shoulders. Yue dredges up the strength to stand, and lets Suki guide her to the kitchen on shaky legs. 

"Alright, sit down here. Is water okay?" 

Yue nods, sinking onto the chair. Her hair falls in her face; it's stringy and greasy. She's not really sure when she last washed it.

No — she is. It was that day. God, it was that day, how could she forget? 

She vaguely registers Suki pushing a glass into her hands. "Here, drink this, alright? You need water. Then we can get you cleaned up."

Yue takes a sip. Another. Her mouth still feels dry even once the glass is empty. Suki gently guides her to stand. 

"You'll feel better after a shower," she says, leading her toward the bathroom. She flips on the light, and it's almost blinding, and Yue shuts her eyes, stumbling towards the shower. Suki sits her on the edge of the bathtub and painstakingly picks the knots out of her hair. Silence hangs in the air, thick and uncomfortable, and Yue hardly dares breathe for fear of what will come if she breaks it.

Finally, Suki puts down the comb, and wordlessly helps Yue undress. Her hands are too warm, too gentle, too small and pale and not his. He should be here right now, in Suki's place. It's a horribly ungrateful thought, but Yue thinks nobody would begrudge her it.

"Do you want me to wash your hair?" Suki asks. Yue doesn't want to be that weak, but she knows there's no way she can manage it herself. She steps into the shower and sits down. 

The water's too hot, at first, but cools as Suki scrubs shampoo over her scalp with practiced hands. It's not her usual lavender scent, but it's familiar nonetheless, in a way that makes her chest ache. She shuts her eyes, focuses on Suki's quiet humming. Tries to forget.

After what feels like ages, Suki helps her to her feet. Yue sways, but manages to keep her balance; her head hurts a little, not as bad as — as that day. 

"You okay?" Suki asks, and somehow Yue manages to nod. "Okay. Want any more help?"

"No," Yue says, her voice coming out a hoarse whisper. "I've got it. Thanks."

Suki squeezes her shoulder. "I'll run some clothes through the dryer, you feel like you're freezing."

Then she's gone, the shower curtain swinging shut. Yue takes in a deep breath, and pushes herself through the motions until she feels like she's scrubbed raw, parched skin peeling in flakes off her upper arms and chest. The water and air are both cold when she gets out. 

Took you long enough, she remembers, drawled across the kitchen as she put on her coat that morning. Hair still wet. Keys dangling from his hand as he waited by the door. Surprised we still have any hot water. She hadn't been in the mood for his snark; he hadn't been in the mood to wait. That was what started it all; if she'd just been on time — 

Suki hands her clothes through the door, but she only puts on the robe from the top of the stack. It isn't hers; she wonders if Suki knows that, Has to, she thinks, because Suki's the one who helped her search until they found the shade of blue Jet liked. It was their anniversary. He'd gotten her the book of fairy tales her mother had read her as a little girl.

The soft flannel is warm from the dryer, still carries the same sharp dry-grassy scent (sage, she thinks), and if she closes her eyes she can imagine that it's warm from his body — that he's wrapped it around her, a peace offering to end their meaningless fight, no last word required.

No damning, cruel, hateful words drowned out by pouring rain and spinning tires. She forces her eyes open, anchoring on the wet tiles to keep from reliving the memory. Feels guilt down to her core, then, like a knife plunged into her stomach, because why should she get to escape from what happened? What comfort does she deserve? 

Any illusion of peace she had is shattered now. She sighs and walks out, feeling time drag around her as she enters the kitchen. 

The smell of cooking vegetables rouses her slightly. Suki stands by the stove, stirring broccoli and carrots in the non-stick skillet she and Sokka bought as a housewarming gift when Yue first moved in here. That was years ago, before Jet, but she still feels raw inside, remembering how she never used it until he moved in and taught her to cook, hands over hers on the utensils, guiding her through it without judgement. 

She sinks onto a stool at the island, where another tall glass of water sits, ice cubes clinking inside it. Suki brings a plate of veggies over after a few minutes, and after doing the dishes, busies herself braiding Yue's hair. Yue eats her food, drinks water when her mouth feels dry, which is always. The silence between them is like a vacuum swallowed up all the sound besides her fork hitting the plate. 

Finally, Suki tells her, very softly, "The funeral is Thursday. That's...You weren't picking up your phone. I came here to tell you."

Yue sets down her fork. Suki's hands are tangled in her hair, so she can't look up. She stares blankly at the table, not really seeing it. "I can't go," she says, her voice breaking.

"You don't have to say anything," Suki says. "It'll be simple. A closed casket. There's —" she breaks off, her own voice cracking. "The burial's in the cemetery downtown. He'll be with his parents."

Yue's heart clenches, tears threatening to overspill. Instead she tears away from Suki's hands, out of the chair — his chair. 

"No, he won't," she says. "He's dead. They're gone, and he's gone too, whatever you're fooling yourself into thinking is just bullshit to make yourself feel better."

Suki stares at her, taken aback. "Yue, you don't mean that."

"Yes I do!" Yue glares back at her, vision hazy as water on a windshield. "Jet's dead, and going to a funeral, dressing up and trying to pretend like I'm holding it together, it's all just pointless! I don't give a damn about some stupid casket. I'm not going to some stupid funeral just to listen to other people talk about him! I—" She breaks off, choking on a sob that won't come out. she forces in a breath.

"I want him, alive, here, not — not in some fucking box. Either that or — I should at least be with him. It should have been me."

It's out of her mouth before she can stop it, the thing she knows she shouldn't say, not now. Basket case, Hahn had sneered, when she told him about her mother's death in childbirth, about the guilt she felt even when she knew she couldn't be at fault. How more than anything she wanted to trade places, just so her father could be himself again, and smile like he did in the wedding photos, before she came along and ruined everything.

(She'd never told Jet, not even when he bared his own shame and grief to her — it's one more thing they'll never share.)

Suki is quiet, before she sighs, pushing the chair in and walking to Yue. "I don't know what I can say to help you. I don't know how you're feeling. But I know you must be one hell of a trouper to be here right now, after all of it. And I know Jet would be proud of you for that. He'd want you to keep going."

Yue wants to argue so badly, but there's truth in what Suki says. 

"It hurts so much," she chokes out. "It's not fair." 

Suki folds her into her arms, warm and safe but not right, and the tears clouding her vision finally fall. 

"I know it's not," Suki says, squeezing her tight. "It's not fair at all." 

"I miss him. I want him back."

"I know. I know, Yue." 

In that moment, Yue breaks, sobbing into Suki's shoulder. She clings to her friend, wishing she didn't wish she were someone else. Her knees buckle, and Suki helps her to the couch; lays Yue's head on her lap, a blanket over her cold body. Gently strokes Yue's hair while she shatters into pieces. 

It feels like hours before the tears subside. Suki's right there, drying her face with a clean, dry rag, wrapping her in a tight hug, and Yue thinks she must be a true friend to stay through all of this.

"I told Sokka I'm staying here for the night. You need to get some sleep, okay?"

She feels too weak now to do anything but sleep, and doesn't protest as Suki leads her to her room. The pillows still smell like him, the sheets in between their favorite shades of blue, still piled in a tangled mess from that morning — before the thought of fighting had even entered their minds. When everything was okay. Yue clings to that memory with all her strength. 

Suki straightens out the covers, letting Yue get in bed and covering her up.

"Stay with me," Yue requests before Suki can offer. Suki crawls under the covers; her weight settles the mattress differently than Yue's used to. She's hesitant, staying in her own space, despite her general touchiness. Yue holds her hand, and she relaxes, moving closer.

Yue closes her eyes, snuggles up to the warm body beside her, and lets herself pretend just once more.