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The gun is heavy in Katara’s hands.
She’s never touched Zuko’s pistols before, let alone used one of them. They kick harder than she expected, especially for how effortlessly he seems to wield them. Even now, after Katara’s put more than half the clip in the loud, twitching body in front of her, the gun still feels cumbersome in her grip. It’s too large, too heavy for her to use properly.
Both hands firmly on the pistol now, feet planted, back straight; Katara’s ready for the recoil this time.
She shoots the bastard again.
And again.
It’s hard to see through the tears.
Katara pulls the trigger until the pistol clicks.
Empty.
Just like her.
Zuko doesn’t say anything. After the all the screaming and cracks of gunshots the silence feels wrong. Katara pulls the trigger again. Click. Nothing happens. Click. Everything is still. Click. It can’t be over already, she’s not done. Click. He doesn’t get to get off this easy, not after everything that he did. Click. Click, click, clickclickclick—
Zuko’s hand is warm. He easily pulls his pistol from Katara’s trembling hands (when did she start shaking?). Without the gun to hold onto, her arms drop limply to her sides. Zuko still doesn’t say anything. He just pulls Katara closer and gently wraps his arm around her. Katara feels numb, but the tears won’t stop; she doesn’t hold Zuko back. His hand cradles the back of her head and he tucks her under his chin. His stubble rasps along her forehead when he does.
Katara doesn’t flinch when Zuko takes out his second pistol and empties it into the now still corpse of the monster that murdered her mother and haunted her nightmares for over twenty years.
Zuko’s lips are soft on her forehead.
He lets her cry for a long time.
§
Body disposal is both easier and more labour intensive than Katara thought. It’s all rather straightforward, not exactly difficult in the grand scheme of things. Dismembering a full sized body that’s been shot so many times that it’s already falling apart in places comes surprisingly easy to Katara. It’s simply another application of her medical knowledge of the human body.
Zuko has to show her how to swing the machete properly though.
At first he doesn’t seem to want to let her do it, the dismembering. Katara finds that funny even though it doesn’t make her laugh, or smile. She stands in his way, hand outstretched, demanding that he pass her the blade. Zuko has that look on his face, the one that says he’s not exactly thrilled about something. They just stare at each other for a bit. Zuko caves and, with a sigh, hands it over. His hand is warm when he grips her shoulder after. The touch doesn’t last long.
They still don’t talk.
The machete is cumbersome at first, just like his pistols. While it is perfectly suited for the job, Katara would feel much more at ease with a practical bone saw. This isn’t careful surgery though, it’s basic butchery. The machete is simply a perfectly versatile tool for this kind of work. In the end, she appreciates all the blade’s applications. It’s a good tool and Zuko has clearly taken good care of it.
Katara’s never been able to properly appreciate the amount of blood in a person before. Yes, she’s an EMT. Yes, she has seen her fair share of injuries and blood loss. There’s something wholly different to the experience when you’re cutting up a full grown man into manageable chunks. Most of the blood ends up on the hard concrete.
Still smells the same.
The lye on the other hand does not smell like her usual sanitation cleansers. She blames the fumes for her fresh wave of tears.
Zuko doesn’t let her help with filling the oil drum. With the lye or the chunks of what used to be a man. She watches all the meaty bits go in and Katara almost laughs this time. They way some of the pieces float, it looks like he’s making soup. In a few months it’s going to be a slurry. She should find this disgusting, she should be nauseous, she should have thrown up by now.
Katara still feels empty.
There’s a hole where the hate and fear used to be.
The monster that killed her mother was just a man, and now he’s not even that. Not even a body, just a mess of meat and bones slowly dissolving in a drum of chemicals.
Zuko straightens up and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. He leaves a smear of blood behind. It doesn’t really stand out from the other splashes and streaks that cover him. Katara knows she probably looks the same.
Maybe they’re all monsters in the end.
Katara doesn’t know what to do with that.
§
Zuko cleans them up with well practised motions. It’s clear that what they’ve done doesn’t really bother him. The killing, the butchering, the blood and guts; he’s rather good at it all. That doesn’t disturb Katara the way it should. She’s known that this is what he does for his family for some time now, even if it was in an abstract way. He makes problems go away, permanently.
He simply fixed Katara’s problem in the best way he knew.
Zuko tenderly strips her out of her soiled clothes, takes great care in washing her. It’s soft in ways Katara can’t articulate.
They’re naked in an empty warehouse, cleaning the evidence of their crime off their skin. The body is beginning to cool and dissolve in an old oil barrel not even ten feet from where they stand. Zuko handled it with a utilitarian efficiency; cold, detached, impersonal. Like he was taking out the trash.
Katara doesn’t care about the body, the blood, or the fact that she just killed a man. The only thing that matters right now is how Zuko touches her.
He pulls her to him the same way he does on the lazy morning spent on her balcony. He drags the washcloth across her shoulders with the same care that he does when they share a shower in the evenings. Zuko is gentle and tender and soft because he loves her and he will do anything to make her happy.
None of what happened today changes that.
Katara is no longer numb.
She lifts her hands and cradles Zuko’s cheeks. The smile he gives her is more of a twitch in the corner of his lips than anything else. He doesn’t stop gently pulling bits of viscera out of her hair. It’s easy for Katara to pull him in for a kiss. Like always Zuko’s lips are soft and warm against her own. His hand cradles the back of her head, fingers twining into her hair. Zuko doesn’t push or deepen the kiss, just a soft slide of lips before he’s pressing their foreheads together.
“Nothing is ever going to hurt you again, love,” Zuko’s words are whispered against her lips and he kisses her again.
Katara believes him.
Zuko never breaks his promises.