DISCLAIMER: I don't own Avatar: The Last Airbender or anything associated with it. Duh. End of story.

SUMMARY: Some people moved on. Others would never forget. Post-Laogai one-shot.

SPOILERS: Mainly Lake Laogai, but everything else is fair game.

-*-

It's obvious by now that no one else is coming. No footsteps, no voices, no vibrations in the floor. Longshot lowers the arrow but keeps it notched, waiting a few more seconds, listening.

He is particularly good at listening.

Jet is still breathing, still struggling. It seems to sum up their existence in a way: ceaselessly fighting a battle that has been all but pre-determined. In many ways, this is ideal for him.

Still, Longshot keeps his arrow notched when he turns his head. He gives Jet a long look, offering, questioning. Jet narrows his eyes and shakes his head, just as Longshot knew he would. Smellerbee, still crying, doesn't notice.

As Longshot replaces the arrow in the quiver, Jet mouths, 'Thank you.'

-*-

For some reason, the glare of sunlight on water reminded Katara of that day in the forest. It had been a long time since she'd thought of it, the golden glow that encompassed them, the leaves in the canopy the brightest red she'd ever seen. Things were still black and white back then. Fire and black snow meant evil, and white snow and red leaves and cute boys with straw in their mouths meant heroism and righteousness. She remembered cherishing the simplicity of it all. Was she too young to call her old self a stupid child?

She didn't look at the sun, but the feel of it on her face and the rush of flying could have brought her back to that moment completely, would have made her heart flutter in that particular way. She could be there, feel it, feel him.

She could tell them about the memory that had slipped through the cracks all this time, like a coin forgotten in a pocket somewhere. Except of course she couldn't because explaining the memory of the forest to Toph would have been exactly like describing color to a blind person, cruel and impossible and out of the question. Of course she couldn't be so rude as to flaunt this thing that she had and they did not.

Anyway the sun over the ocean wasn't the same as a forest canopy, and she was flying forward, not up, and it was Aang holding her – Aang and Sokka and Toph – and for a hundred other reasons, the memory needed to stay just that. In truth, her life this evening was in no way different from her life two nights before, in that the three people closest to her in this second were the ones who really mattered.

She cried anyway.

-*-

After his fever broke, Zuko closed his eyes one more time and dreamed about the boy who attacked him. He heard Uncle Iroh's voice saying this boy was himself, angry and irrational, struggling for redemption, preoccupied with infallibility. It was odd to recognize the symbolism as it happened. He thought about how tired he was of facing obstacles, himself, his family, his destiny; why couldn't he just find his path and be done with it? Yet here he was, fighting some pissed off teenager who turned out to be his own subconscious minus a few key details, when they had done this whole thing in the real world already.

Sometimes Zuko wanted to ask if the spiritual world had a sadistic streak, but he was too afraid Uncle's answer would be indecipherable or exactly what he expected. Possibly both.

Perfect, he thought to himself, leaning back to avoid another swipe, even my own thoughts aren't making sense. Maybe I do need friends my age.

In that instant, the boy stumbled backward, grinning, and suddenly Zuko was standing in a forest. The boy's two friends were digging alongside a group of kids he didn't recognize. Zuko caught a glimpse of the bundle behind them and looked away, suddenly cold. He wondered if it was a metaphor for his own conflict, wanted to ask what had happened. Didn't know if it was real: if it had happened, would happen, was happening this instant. It crossed his mind that if it were real, then the boy would not be able to expose him and Uncle. Almost instantly, Zuko hated himself for it.

The boy appeared in front of him, as Zuko had always known he would, and sneered. And smirked.

"The prince," he said. "All that, and you were the damn crown prince."

And he laughed. And he laughed and he laughed.

-*-

"One of the Avatar's friends has been…disposed of, your highness."

"I see. Good work."

"Thank you, Princess."

"One of the benders?"

"No, your highness."

"The brother then. The annoying one with the boomerang."

"No, your highness. A different one. He was new."

"New?"

"Yes, your highness. "

"Then why are you wasting my time?"

-*-

Grateful for the sparse crowd on the outbound ferry, Smellerbee brushes Jet's hair out of his face and lets herself weep openly. She has to; Longshot is frozen, impassive – even his eyes are wordless right now – and someone has to shed tears in his place.

She expects Jet's skin to be warmer, or colder maybe. Something. She hates that he could be asleep, wrapped up in old blankets, mouth parted, eyes shut, features smooth. Probably she should be grateful he isn't in pain – or doesn't appear to be, at least – but like this she can almost pretend it's okay, like he'll wake up any minute and they'll start over, again. It's getting harder and harder not to let herself imagine it.

Jet always does this with his own wounds: pretends they're nothing to make people feel better. She used to appreciate it; she wants to smack him for it now, when every few seconds she leans close to his chest just to make sure he's still breathing, dreading the moment when she listens and finds nothing there.

It's all very anticlimactic really, this moment-to-moment panic and relief. Anyone else would have been gone hours ago. Not him.

She wants to ask Longshot if he thinks Jet might make it to the old hideout. It might be good for him, seeing it one last time. She wants to ask but is too afraid his eyes will give her the answer she already knows.

But Smellerbee can't admit that she desperately wants Jet to die awake.

Maybe it's stupid, maybe this is best, maybe she's being selfish. Only she wants to explain to him that in the weeks he went missing, they never stopped looking and never would have. She wants to tell him how in the middle of the night she used to wonder if they should hold some kind of memorial, just in case; or how every time the thought crossed her mind, she got a feeling like her insides were forming a fist. She wants to explain this and so much more before it happens again – again, damn it – without the chance or hope of turning a street corner and finding him there.

Only she doesn't have the words and he doesn't have the time and in the end it won't matter anyway.

The blankets aren't moving. Heart pounding, Smellerbee lowers her ear as close to him as she can and holds her breath. Hear own heart is pounding, and she has this fleeting thought that maybe she can make it beat hard enough for the both of them.

There it is, the brush of air. Too faint. Too weak. Too slow. But there. Her elbows are shaking. She closes her eyes and two dark spots appear on the blanket where tears have fallen.

-*-

Toph would never, ever tell anyone, not ever, that for an instant she had wished she could stop the earth from bending. In that moment after she whispered to Sokka, as the heartbeat behind them grew slower and weaker and slower still, she had wished that just for a few minutes she could render herself truly blind.

-*-

Weeks after the war ended, Sokka still wasn't used to walking through the forest without constant lookout for signs of the enemy. He supposed he never would, as the snap of a twig in the wind sent his left hand straight to boomerang. Suki looked at him, her hand on the inside of his elbow. He loved her more for not saying anything. She understood.

"Enemy branches," he whispered.

"What?"

"Nothing." She hadn't been there. He'd forgotten.

"You know what's amazing to me?" she said, just as a breeze caught the tips of her hair and blew it back, rendering Sokka routinely, temporarily speechless. He shook his head. "How we all made it out of this." She bent down, picked up a fallen leaf, twisted it between thumb and middle finger. It shined like a ruby when the sun caught it. She let the breeze carry it away and they kept walking. "I mean," as the trees gave way to open field, the sun illuminated her face with a golden glow, and it struck Sokka that she was Yue's antithesis in every way. "I mean, with all we went through, you'd think more people would have died. It's unbelievable to me that everyone on our side survived."

Something seemed wrong with that statement, but Sokka couldn't place his finger on what. So he nodded even as something in his chest pulled his features into a look of confusion.

"Besides her," said Suki. Sokka nodded. That wasn't it.

"Amazing," he said uncertainly.

"But who's complaining?" said Suki. She laughed, and Sokka tried to join her. The sound of his own laugh quickly became forced, hollow.

The grass reached nearly to their knees. He could hear it rustling as they made their way across the field. Sokka froze in his tracks and cringed.

"What is it?"

You'll get yourself killed doing that.

"Sokka?" Suki had let go of his arm. He cleared his throat. Shook his head. Snapped the top off one of the blades.

I'm so sorry, buddy. Won't do it again.

He put the broken end between his teeth. It was bitter and dry. Probably looked ridiculous. He raised his eyebrows at Suki, who laughed.

"It's you," she said, shaking her head. "Very you."

No it isn't.

He took it out of his mouth, held it uselessly by his side, considering.

"What do you think," he asked Suki, gazing across the field, "about instincts?"

-*-

Weeks, months, even years later, Aang still couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that there were some wounds Katara couldn't heal.

"It's ironic, isn't it," he said one day to no one in particular. "That it was an Earth Bender."

Appa grunted.

-*-

"Longshot?"

…

"Do you think he would've been able to do it? Jet, start fresh, I mean. If he… you know… Do you think he could've done it?"

…

"Yeah. I don't know either."

-*-

He can taste jelly candies on the back of his tongue.

That earth bending kid will know he's lying. Amazing. Should've told her that. Good leaders do it, call them out on doing good. Good for morale.

"Let's not get those mixed up," he wants to say, but his voice is set like the sun behind mountains and he'll have to wait until morning.

What was her name? Katara will tell her. Tell him. No, right the first time. Katara told him already. Should've kissed her. Just once. Or more.

Underneath his skin, he can feel himself shifting. It's an unnerving sensation, his head out of line with his body, which is out of line with his self. Him self. His selves now. Messy inside, no more order; thinking is like catching a newt-eel with bare hands. Or a bear-fox with new hands, new, nude, real, feel hands catching a rock or rocks with a bear inside, next to the king. There is no war in Ba Sing Se. The Earth King has invited you…

"It's okay," someone is whispering. Katara. No. Smellerbee. "We're off the ferry. We're taking you home." He can hear her crying. "We're taking you home." He wants to tell her to stop. "We're taking you home." Why three times?

No. Just once, taken in three times by the swirling fragments left from the commodity known as Jet.

What does Jet even mean, anyway? Nothing. Something. Simple. Stable. Here and gone. Hopefully enough.

What was his name? The boy with the scar. Could've sworn they'd be on his side. The enemy of the enemy and all that. How'd he warm the tea, then? Traitors back in the city. Back, they have to go back. He has to warn someone. Smellerbee and Longshot will be able to…

When is a Firebender not a Firebender? When an Earth Kingdom citizen is killed by a man who controls rock. When a Waterbender blames him for the flood. All his fault, actually.

Longshot is here. He can feel him. Longshot's eyes will protect them. He trusts Longshot's eyes. They are capable eyes; he led them well.

Breathing out is becoming a problem. Like being stranded at the top of a tree, the vine broken, other branches snapped, cracked, straight through him, in him, keep very, very still, is stuck and can't get down, like a hare-cat. Needs Aang here to move the air so he doesn't have to. Too much at once and the pain is blinding. His throat wants to cough but it'll rip him apart and it's his job to fight as long as he can.

Shuffle down, branch to branch, careful, tentative, slow and steady, the opposite of himself. Empty like a bowl of purple berries, toss them out one by one by one to see his trail. Up is easy. Easier. Less hard, like blowing bubbles underwater underneath his skin. And stuck again.

His self is too far from himself. Never had to think about breathing, not like this. This isn't stealth or form, this is three people trying to realign like stars in a broken body.

He feels like his head is underwater. Or just him, all of the hims. He's drifting, fading, fighting because he's supposed to. Doesn't know why, never really knew the why, not really. Fire was bad and rock and swords would quench it.

Something is buzzing behind his skull. He'd forgotten he has hair. Something is touching his foreheads. Close to him.

"Goodbye."

Too deep for Smellerbee. Do eyes make voices now? Did they always? He can't remember.

Someone is crying. He is drifting, shifting, floating, fading.

Somewhere, a voice.