'Cause I'm a hazard to myself

[mortemscintilla]

WHO: Korra and Hei
WHAT: A series of mildly unfortunate events.

[ Another family visit, Hei thinks acidly, faking a gentle smile and general pleasantries as Tonraq and Senna feign to depart. Their fourth drop-in this month. Ostensibly because they were 'in the neighborhood' -- and not, in fact, because they're here to pressure 'Li' to stop cohabiting with their darling daughter, and man up and put a ring on her finger. Or, in this case, a necklace around her pretty neck. ]

[ Too bad it means a noose around his. ]

[ While Korra prattles with her parents at the doorway, he clears the remnants of dinner (roasted duck stuffed with mushrooms and chilis and pickled carrots) from the table. Calm, cheerful -- but inwardly steeped in the foulness of his mood. Asami has dropped by too: he can hear her giggling at something Tonraq says, hers and Korra's murmurs braiding together in a lilting weave. The whole house is filled with girlish sweetness and family-friendly light, and it is making him unbearably disgusted. ]

[ Stewing, he rinses the dishes with sudsy fingers, watching the briskness of his own hands. They seem so unnatural cradling crockery. They always do. But lately everything else feels like a big pile of unnatural too: the factory-work too tedious, the Beach House's walls too close, the number of guests that drop by every evening too smothering, Asami buzzing around as if she lives here, Tonraq always blustering at Hei's elbow, brimful with manly advice and carefully-worded questions on Hei's future plans, while Senna pokes at every nook and cranny of the kitchen like some creepily Korra-shaped domestic!cop. ]

[ And here is the question: why doesn't he put his foot down? Tell Korra to stop letting Asami over so often? Demand that the 'in-laws' limit their pestering? It's his house too, and who would dare to argue it? It would be reclaiming his life along with it, because it is -- it is like a symbol of something. Of everything. No third wheels, no nosy parents. Why hasn't he? ]

[ Because Tonraq and Senna are nice and unfussy and down-to-earth. Because you don't mind having them around -- in limited doses. Because the same goes for Asami. She's a damn sight better than having Mako or Bolin or those obnoxious Air-Babies over. Also because they're Korra's family, and after all the ways she's accepted you, it's high time you return the favor. ]

[ A twinge of guilt flares. Hei deals with it the only way he knows how. He turns the radio on to the Jazz station, and cranks it up just high enough to cut into conversation. He can feel the others eyeballing him, and looks up winningly, wrist-deep in dishwater. ]

Have a safe trip back.

[ More farewells, more yadda yadda, and then Tonraq, Senna, and finally Asami are out the door, Korra closing it behind them. Hei snaps off the radio at once. Wiping his wet hands on a dishtowel, he mutters, to preempt Korra's prospective scolding, ]

Nice people. But after four hours, I prefer them off the premises.

Comments

[anatural]

[The bottle is the second thing she notices, and it puts her on high(er) alert. Sometimes — not often, but sometimes — liquor makes him playful and affectionate. More frequently, it makes him nasty. If he's too drunk, she'll put off giving him the news for another night, though now that she's home, she'd rather get it over with, the sooner to start picking up the pieces.]

How much of that have you had? [Her tone is more cautious than accusatory. She's just trying to get the lay of the land before she steps on another landmine.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Getting it over with is a good idea. But it will still take a horse-pill of courage, considering Hei's red-rimmed eyes, the low-wattage intensity of his gaze. He's not the mean-drunk variety of bleary. Just soused enough that everything is hazy at the edges. He likes the Beach House. But it is always the wrong texture and shape when he's alone too long. The lamps make a muted geometry of triangular glows; the couches have a stuffed, intrusive presence; everything fits together neatly and too well, which he can usually ignore but tonight can't. The bowl of apples, the embroidered throws, the tasseled peppers on the kitchen wall. Domesticity, domesticity, everywhere he looks. ]

[ It asks for chaos, which is why chaos creeps out from the corners of his brain. ]

Enough that I won't ask how your visit to Asami's went.

[ His voice is at its most toneless, creating a distance cultivated for Korra's sake. Or for his own. (Or, simply because he is an asshole. Hei tolerates her flitting to and from Asami's place most days, but today the idea that the women were within ten feet of each other makes something in him sour.) ]

[anatural]

[We didn’t have sex But she's not going to justify herself to him. He's the one who opened the door to a more "open" relationship, and while they've redefined their boundaries, made clear what is & isn't acceptable for them, neither of them have made promises of exclusivity.]

I wouldn't tell you even if you did. [The last word is clipped off — she regrets speaking as soon as the words are out of her mouth, but of course it's too late then. She shakes her head and takes a breath.] Look, there's something I need to tell you.

[mortemscintilla]

[ It's not the exclusivity he's concerned about. It's the knowledge -- crippling, mournful -- that Asami is better suited to Korra than he is. The fact that Asami will be better at fulfilling Korra's needs, many of which Hei either overlooks in his default self-absorption, or which elude him so completely he dismisses them as irrelevant. Whereas Asami is sweet and solicitous, ever-willing to cater to Korra's flights of fancy, to smooth over any wrinkles and rough edges with her special brand of honeyed tact. ]

[ What, in comparison, does Hei have to offer? Lychee desserts? ]

[ Knock it off. He's picking at his own anxieties. ]

[ He ignores the bite in Korra's words. Ignores the sting that blooms then dies beneath a cloying gulp of alcohol. Just one swallow -- before he sets the bottle aside. Now isn't the time to be holding counsel with his good friend CH3CH2OH. Especially not when Korra is practically brimming with portent. He's not sure how he's aware of it. But he is, by subliminal degrees. Something about the way the air hums between them. Some instinctual understanding of the way tension bends space, altering gravity. ]

[ He doesn't know. He lets a breath out and waits. He waits, he realizes, the way he waits for the end of his life -- without expectation or desire. Just waiting. Resigned to whatever shape the thing will take. The familiar blankness is unsettling, but also unsurprising. ]

[ Flatly, ]

What?

[anatural]

[She doesn't like that look or tone either. When he's blank, he's unpredictable. When he's blank, he's even more dangerous. She doesn't like that blankness, but she's not afraid of it, not the way she was in the beginning, when their relationship was at its most toxic & twisted. He used to seem so large to her — stronger than her, a better fighter than her, darker than she could ever hope to wrap her mind around, with so much to teach her. Now he's only human, messy and complicated and just as lost as everybody else.

We’re all lost, she reminds herself, and it makes it easier for her to be patient with him.]

I'm pregnant. [Left unsaid, but obvious in her manner, I want to keep it.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ It's funny. For her, he's stopped being a dangerous enigma. But for him, she'll always be that shining, sweet-seventeen miracle. When they eat together, when they fuck, when they talk, that burning imprint of her never fades. She'll angle her head as she lies on the pillow, cant her hips a certain way as she leans across the counter, and the outline of her bone structure will seem more than just purely arousing to him. In his eyes, she's still Korra -- the older and younger versions mixing. Her hair not yet leeched a lighter shade by the sunlight. Her hands not yet filmed with fine callouses. Her face still padded to a beguiling softness. And he'll look at his own self and his body will no longer seem that scar-hardened, calcified thing, either. It is as if their young selves reappear when he's with her ... the strangest thing. ]

[ But those younger, other selves are never really gone, are they? All their possibilities. Why would they be? They're only waiting for you to chase them down and reclaim them. ]

[ She speaks, the words strung in a row like a bandoleer of grenades. But Hei can barely absorb them on account of the searing roar that fills his skull. Not an explosion. The opposite. Heat-vacuum. A rushing emptiness. But it's not because he doesn't feel anything. He's cycling through too many emotions, too fast -- terror, disgust, happiness, suspicion -- that they've dissolved in a blur. Dimly, he's aware of the stillness of his face, its look neither sharp nor stressed. ]

[ Why, he thinks, hadn't he seen this coming? He'd grown entirely too complacent these few months. Of course one big flaming pinwheel of a disaster would crash in on his life, destroy the peace. A baby is a disaster. The first pregnancy was traumatic enough. A presaging of Bad Things To Come, giftwrapped in sickening sentiment. Her miscarriage, the Red Lotus, her illness, her depression -- It was one of the bleakest eras of their relationship. Even as that time did nothing but seethingly brand into his psyche how deeply he loved her. ]

[ He does love her. Terribly, completely. Enough that he can't bear to lose her to a child. To anything. He's not going to let a stupid mistake given flesh come between them. ]

No.

[ Hard and emphatic. His gaze is black -- not burning but icy. No to the baby. No to keeping it. No to this whole surreal situation. ]

No.

[anatural]

[The sad fact is, if he loses her to anything — it's going to be himself. The ice in his voice hits her like a weapon, straight through her chest, but this time she's staying calm. Last night her temper — drained by socializing with her family, and by trying to cover for Hei's ill humor — got away from her. Today she's (a little more) in control.]

Sit down [She gestures to the chair nearest her] and we can talk about this.

[She can be flexible about it this time. The baby doesn't have a heartbeat yet; according to Southern Water Tribe custom, she can still terminate the pregnancy. She's willing to hear him out, weigh the risks and benefits as a couple, but she is not going to bow down to his knee-jerk autocratic instincts. She is not going to change her mind unless he indicates that he understands and respects her position.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ He hates when she's like this. Clear-eyed and calm in the face of his whirling inner-storm. It makes self-disgust race through him, delineating that monster within in a mordant-hot green that sizzles like acid. Already he feels like he's gone too far, sunk in too deep, when he hadn't meant to embark on this affair at all. Now suddenly -- a baby? No way in hell. It is obscene and impossible. He's not fit to be around one. He's certainly not going to let it drive a wedge between Korra and himself. ]

[ He doesn't drift closer. He stays where he is, cross-legged, knotted with tension. His mind is racing. But when he speaks the words come out dangerously flattened, paper-thin. ]

There's nothing to talk about.

[ In the back of his mind, unhindered by churning anxieties, ideas click together with the clarity of operational default. Why she'd brought up marriages yesterday. Why she'd been so punchy and defensive in the face of his corrosive criticisms. ]

[ He doesn't temper the bite in his gaze. ]

Does your family know? Is this why they kept dropping in? [ Sharper, ] Did you tell Asami too?

[anatural]

[If there's nothing to talk about, then why are you asking so many questions? She resists the urge to meet his nasty with nastiness.]

No, my family doesn't know. I didn't even know until yesterday morning. [She doesn't touch his comment about Asami. This isn't the conversation they need to be having right now.]

Come over here so we can talk about this.

[mortemscintilla]

[ It's is exactly the conversation they should be having. Because her silence is a resonating Yes. She'd told Asami, her best friend -- but not him, the goddamn sperm donor. It's Asami she goes to when she's distressed. It's Asami she confides all her tenderest and prickliest secrets to. Asami might be the chief occupant of her thoughts right now. Because no matter what he does or says, how he engages her attention, there is an undiluted link between the two women. Pure and touchingly true. Probably she only wants to keep the damn baby because she's at the age where she's secure enough to consider nesting. The fact that it's his DNA is incidental. As soon as he lets her down -- and he knows he will -- she'll remember she has Asami to fall back on. Once she gets a renewed taste of that, of a relationship that's as placid as a leaf floating in a spring pond, she won't want anything else. He, Hei, will be extraneous. ]

[ The cold certainty sets up inside him like an itch, until he can't stay still. ]

[ He doesn't listen to her. He shakes his head, dry-eyed and sere, and jerks to his feet. Instead of going to her, he goes to the kitchen. Yanks open the fridge, as if looking for something to eat, but it's really just to feel the cold air bathing his face. He takes nothing out. ]

[ Without turning around, he says, in that manner of plainspeaking that comes across as casual brutality. ]

I don't want a baby. Not now. Or ever.

[ It is a tragedy, just waiting to happen. The first time certainly was. The brief era while she'd been pregnant, while things were sheened with hope, she'd looked as if she had no thought in her pretty head. But his head had too many. Thoughts of what kind of father he'd be, thoughts of disappointing Korra, thoughts of great and miserable wrongness, of guns and wars and corpses and death, and even now as he speeds to outrace them it's oh, christ, oh christ -- ]

[ He refuses to allow a baby into their lives. Or worse, to allow Korra to carry it -- only to nearly lose her to a gore-red tide of complications like last time. ]

[anatural]

[That's not true at all, and if he weren't in such a mood, he would realize it. When she's struggling with her Avatar responsbilities, Hei is still the first person she talks to. When she's angry about something that's happened, she rants to him. He's the one who knows the details of her days; he's the one she comes home to. The only reason she told Asami about the pregnancy first is because she needed someone who would listen and not react with knee-jerk emotion. Her parents would insist on keeping the baby; Hei would insist on terminating. Asami is the only one who would let Korra work out her feelings for herself. That doesn't mean Asami is first & foremore in her thoughts; it doesn't mean Hei is irrelevant. It means that not everybody can be everything to everyone.

She sits down at the kitchen table and watches him stand at the fridge. She refuses to react to the brutality in his voice.]

What if I do?

[She's never really wanted one before. She isn't 100% sure she wants one now. Her feelings on the matter fluctuate from moment to moment. But what she definitely wants, what she needs from him, is to know that what she wants matters to him.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Yes. He would realize it -- if not for the gravity-well brewing in his belly, an irrational impotent rage that calls to mind the scars clambering up his body, and the echos of his past screaming in his ears. He's been left out of the loop before. He's been betrayed by those he trusted. He's never been able to hold on to what he loves. He's told himself he could tolerate the idea of sharing Korra with Asami. Not because he wants her growing close to the other woman. But because he wants her to be happy. And if part of that's having Asami in her life, so be it. ]

[ But a baby is different. He's terrified that whatever fragments of closeness he shares with Korra will be sliced to pieces into by a child. He's afraid he'll be an unfit father -- just as he's an unfit human being. He's a killer, and he understands payback -- literal and cosmic. You pay what you owe, or you're forced to pay, in ways that leave you gutted and spineless afterward. Once it's over, you can only crawl. ]

[ Korra's voice, floating up behind him, is so small and sad, impossibly young. The softness of it tears at him. But he doesn't let her see. Instead he takes out a bottle of papaya juice, so he'll have something in his hands to keep from punching things. He never looks like he intends to punch Korra, not lately, but maybe the broad gestures with bottles and the wadding of dish towels help. ]

[ He doesn't meet her eyes. He just leans against the counter, the bottle placed before him, forming a small wet ring on the polished marble surface. Each word, when he speaks, is a hard little thing, spit out like a bitter olive pit. But truthful, in the way he so rarely is. ]

It's not the shared responsibility I'm worried about. I just want you to think a minute. A baby of mine. Nothing on the slate except my genetics. It's a bad idea. Children bring their damage with them from the womb, from the day they leave the womb. Already in the cradle they're soaking up their parents' fuck-ups.

[ And I am a fuck-up. I've made horrible mistakes, and worse choices. I'm not someone you should have a child with. I'm unclean and wrong and whatever I feel for the baby may not be enough. ]

[anatural]

It's not all bad. [He's not all bad. He's no paragon of humanity; she's not loveblind enough to even think that he's a particularly "good" person. But he's not as awful as he thinks. He doesn't appreciate his own complexity; he sees himself in black & white.]

Hei, I wouldn't have spent the last ten years of my life with you if you didn't have something inside you. [She wants to reach out and touch him, but she doesn't know how welcome that would be right now.] I love you. [Would he make a great father? Of course not. But he could be good. And there is plenty in him that is worth loving, and preserving.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Love. He wishes that word was a cure-all. Wishes he could absorb it into himself, in the way of rainwater and parched soil. Let it seep between his cracks and fuse them together. But as much as Hei is no sociopath, he's not Pavlov's Dog either, showing his belly for love. For just the word. He knows first-hand what limits love has. How it restricts your choices. But also how it doesn't, in the end, erase the innate selfishness of your nature -- or your instinct to survive. ]

[ He doesn't turn around to face her. He stays where he is, high-shouldered, knuckling the edge of the counter. But he can see her, in a five-degree scoop of peripheral vision that coheres the whole image of her brilliantly together -- the motes of taste and sound and scent piling together like the unexpected pieces of a solved puzzle. If he meets her gaze, he might reconsider his misgivings. Might melt, by slow degrees, into acquiescence. That fucking cardinal flaw in his nature: an inability to hold out against the girls in his life. ]

[ He can almost hear Maxley's jeering voice. Still pushed around by women. ]

[ Exhaling, Hei squeezes his eyes shut. When he speaks, he tries to iron out the ragged edges of his voice. ]

You think that. But I'm better acquainted with my worth [ or unworthiness ] than you could possibly be.

[ She hasn't met the real Black Reaper. She's seen shadowy glimpses, true -- but each one has left a mark. She believes he's twisted and damaged, but essentially a decent person. Or someone trying to be one. She can't comprehend that he's so far beyond decent there isn't a word for it. He's someone who should be in prison for life. Who should be marched out before a firing squad and shot. From childhood to adulthood, he's lost count of how many he's slaughtered. Children. Elderly. Pregnant women. He wonders how Korra would react knowing he's made a career out of worming his way into the lives of his victims, deceiving, cajoling and sleeping with innocents and monsters alike, knowing even as he gained their trust that he was guiding them to ruin or death. ]

[ Quieter, half-dry, half-rueful, ]

You don't even know my real name.

[anatural]

I don't think you see your own worth. [It can be hard to have perspective on yourself. Faults are magnified; goodness is erased. He acts as though he's unknowable, as though she's completely ignorant and taken in. But she knows him, even if she doesn't know the details. There is nothing he could tell her about his past that would surprise her — and that would likely surprise him.] A name is just a name. It doesn't mean anything.

[She hesitates for just a breath, then stands, slowly. It's never a good idea to come up on him suddenly.]

Look, nothing is set in stone yet. I just want us to talk about it. Look at me. Please.

[mortemscintilla]

[ A name is just a name. Deja vu flickers. Strange, how his life acts as tunnels crafted from looping möbius strips. Everything Amber had said to him, that he's said to Korra, she echoes back at him now. Existence is fucking uncanny. Dimly, he wonders if this -- the conversation, the news of the baby -- is the Point. That instant in time, measurable in seconds, that acts as the hinge for everything you've ever done. Everything feeds into that moment: your backlog of experience and behaviors determine how you enter that moment and how you'll walk away from it afterwards. Every way you've ever been hurt, every grievance nursed, every secret fear, those moments where you've stood up or stepped down and all the love in your body -- it all matters when you reach the Point. It is all brought to bear. ]

[ And you'll look back in the aftermath, trying to piece together how A met B. Except the threads are tangled, yet the links exist in ways you can't even imagine. It's a matter of debts to be repaid. Balance. ]

[ He doesn't want to look at her. Not when his flesh goes hot and cold at her very proximity. Except her pleading voice is like a hook in the vitals. He flicks a glance around her face, reading her, his own face held deliberately inexpressive. Except there is something in his eyes. Soft, tentative, full of hope and the prescience of bitter disappointment. Everything that is hard, glinting, sharp Bk201 for the moment stripped away -- leaving someone unrecognizably tired and raw behind. ]

[ In a different voice, almost a whisper, ]

You can't keep this baby. There are a million reasons not to. You've just got your life on track. Don't throw it away. I've seen you nearly die once already. And it made me crazier than usual. [ He laughs, sort of. It is the kind of noiseless sibilation you can mistake for something else. Like a man's throat being cut. ] I'm not so strong as you, I guess. Or so brave.

[anatural]

[The softness in his eyes makes her bold, and she reaches out to touch his arm, quietly inviting an embrace.]

My life has been stable for awhile now. And believe it or not, I'm healthier now than I've ever been. This would be the time.

[She gets as close as she can — whether it's wrapping her arms around him or simply pressing against him.] I love what we have. But I think that we could love this too.

[mortemscintilla]

[ We. Us. He wishes he could trust those plural pronouns as more than just glittery, cored-out shells. Wishes he could meet those bright eyes, that unflinching gaze, and let it coax him like a magnet to True North. The trust she has in him, the unfailing optimism, is excruciating. She's ever-ready to believe he has reserves of inner-strength he doesn't use -- moral resolve he doesn't use -- and that if he tries it will come to him. He knows right from wrong, sure. But the question is whether he's capable of choosing right. For her. For the baby. ]

[ He doesn't know. She's right up close, so he's inhaling the cloud of her aroma, her warmth enveloping him so he's helpless against the fragile tenderness wafting through him, helpless against his body's blind instincts. Except that existence going forward with a baby seems insupportable. He barely knows who or what he is anymore -- except that he's not someone who should be a parent. Inviting an innocent life into their precarious relationship could be a torture as much as a tantalizing blessing. And a if everything falls apart, it might never resume its usual shape and solidity. Their happiness would not just be bent. It would be broken to pieces. Perhaps erased forever. ]

[ Is he willing to risk that? ]

[ He doesn't gather her into his arms. But he doesn't jerk away either. His eyes, a few inches away, glint in orbit above hers -- shuttered, but quietly scared, too. ]

Or we could hate it. There's no way to be sure ... [ A breath, before he manages a tight, rueful half-smile. ] Having a baby is about what we need. It's never about the baby. Not until it gets here. Once it does, you can't send it back. You understand that, right?

[anatural]

You know, my parents told me the same thing about bringing home a wild polar bear dog. [A little humor to off-set the annoyance. When he gets scared or emotional, he tends to treat her like a particularly ignorant child, which drives her crazy, but it's better than the ice-cold bitterness.]

I understand the responsibility. Believe me, this is not a decision I'm taking lightly. We have a few weeks to think about it. But I want us to seriously think about it. [She tentatively wraps her arms around him, wanting to have him close, not wanting him to feel confined.] I know it sounds kinda cheesy, but we have the chance to make something together. [A part of Korra has been itching for a new challenge, something else that she can commit her endless energies to. The world doesn't need the full force of her attention; in fact, it needs her to step back. Her spiritual journey is unfulfilling. A new responsibility feels like exactly what she needs.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ The embrace diffuses his tension. But not completely. Against his will, his roaming hand slides up her spine, cradles the back of her skull, a melony warmth through the thick tumble of hair. His gaze never wavers from hers, but there is something wistful, drifting, in its gleam. Of course to her this is an adventure, a journey of self-discovery. Something novel and excitingly rewarding. But for him it's a an omen of disaster to come. It might not be, sure. Everything could turn out okay. But there is no way of knowing that. Even if the pregnancy is smooth sailing, if the baby is born healthy, ten toes and ten fingers, there is no guarantee he'll be the kind of person to keep a child. What would he do with a tiny human being? ]

[ He can't say that to Korra. How can he, when she's smiling in that softly glowing way that is identical to when she's absorbed in her katas, all the elements flowing through her, an incredible trancelike wave, as if her essence is breaking free of her flesh and flying up in a blur of burning light. Happiness that pure is rare but amazing to see. Affection wells in him, warring with cynicism. He could believe her. Believe in her -- and let her guide the way. Unconventional and brashly independent as she is, she is also able to compromise instantly and enthusiastically when she sees the need for it. Perhaps this quality more than any other is why she is the chosen one, the Avatar, and why she glides so effortlessly through fiendishly delicate situations like this. ]

[ He doesn't know. The fear that springs through him is enormous, but also selfish. Because baby or no baby, it's Korra he can't bear to lose. ]

[ With effort, ]

Look. I'll try. As much as I can. But don't pretend what I am won't be an issue. Children never stop needing. Everything costs -- one way or another. Whatever I feel, whatever I do -- it may not be enough.

[anatural]

[She'd be glad to know she makes it look effortless, because it's not. She wants to say, in response to his comment, that effort is never enough. In her role as the Avatar, she's learned that everything in your power is still not enough to solve all the problems in the world... Or even a single person's life. Your best efforts will always leave something wanting.

By that same token, whatever you can give is still good enough. The only thing that matters, the only thing you can control, it's how much effort you put into something. The results will be what they are.

She doesn't say that. It'd be hard for her to put it in words, and that would just be an invitation for him to poke holes in it, because that's what he does when he's anxious. She settles for leaning forward and kissing him gently.]

We'll make it work.

[mortemscintilla]

[ He's more than anxious. He's terrified to the tenth degree, his mind still stymied at the possibility of a baby, the lifted hairs on his nape and the tingling horror in his body attesting otherwise. It would be easy to rationalize it as a healthy wariness of the unknown. That he's afraid it will make Korra less of an Avatar -- him less of a pragmatist, a survivor. That he doesn't want to share her with anyone, even a morsel of his own flesh and blood. Hell, he wishes it were as crassly simple as envisioning the end of his sumptuous sex life. ]

[ All of those fears are valid. But they're barely the tip of the iceberg. It's a matter of reality versus emotional economics. Where patience is concerned, he's nearly bankrupt. Kindness: ditto. The baby will cost him sentiments, capacities, he doesn't possess. Force him into a lifestyle he's not built for. It's not that Korra doesn't understand this -- maybe she does, maybe she doesn't -- but her optimism sometimes outweighs her capacity to grasp the ponderous truths. He's a killer. It's still a struggle for him to love more than a handful of people at a time. Still impossible for him to be honest without effort. ]

[ What if they can't make it work? What if he fails as a father -- the way he's failed at protecting everyone who mattered to him? ]

[ He can't say that. He folds Korra closer, her forehead pressed to his chest, absorbing the oddly reassuring tickle and dig of his chin on her scalp. Reminds himself he's survived war, abuse, hunger, hurt, betrayal. He's lived and thrived in the darkest depths of hell, right where the wild things are. Softness -- the care-giving sort -- has been drained from him. But not completely. There are still a few drops left. ]

[ Smoothing the unruly crush of her hair, he murmurs, ]

Have you seen a healer yet? A doctor?

[ Thinking of the practicalities helps him focus. Puts him on the straight and narrow: keeping Korra safe. ]

[anatural]

[She shakes her head.]

I wanted to talk to you first. [The last time they didn't really have any choice in the matter — no matter what Hei says, by Southern Water Tribe custom life begins with the heartbeat, and Korra will not discard that custom because it's convenient for him. But this time it's early enough that they do have a choice, and she wants him to know that. This is a decision they're making together.]

Would you like to go with me?

[mortemscintilla]

[ It's hardly a mutual decision when she's so adamant about keeping it. If he floats the idea of an abortion, he imagines she'll whip a picture of some terminated baby in a Right To Life pamphlet before his face. Nothing so much as a skinned guinea pig. Exhaling, Hei lets his eyes slip shut. Shivers. Two kinds of shivers: the fear-shiver and the shiver of anticipation. First time he's been unable to mark a clear distinction. The thought of flushing the goddamn baby down the drain puts a chalky feeling in his mouth. But at the idea of keeping it, there is a brittle cracking sensation, localized in his chest and skull. ]

[ Why can't this whole thing just go away? ]

[ He doesn't meet her eyes. Hands on her shoulders, he draws back to regard her svelte, innocent-looking stomach. ]

I don't think -- [ His memory serves up a glistening-red scoop of Korra, lying clammy and limp on the stained bedsheets, her skin changing color, brown to beige-pink to gray-peach to bone-white as blood drains in steady pulses from between her thighs. Shaking it off, he hears himself say, ] Yeah. I'll go.

[ Because if she is keeping that rugrat-to-be, then this pregnancy can't go like the first one did. ]

[anatural]

[Hei, you already floated the idea of an abortion, and she did none of those things. The only thing she's said, over and over and over again in this conversation, is that she wants them to have a serious conversation about it. She wants them to actually consider the possibilities, weigh the pros and cons. So much of their relationship has been driven by impulse and instinct, and she doesn't regret that but they need to learn how to talk about these things.

She leans forward and kisses him.] I love you. [That's never going to not be true. Even if everything goes pear-shaped, even if they reach a divide that they cannot cross, she is always going to love him.]