mirror, mirror (Legend of Korra, Asami/Mako)
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Asami/Mako, Korra
Mirrors: Tumblr, FFnet, AO3.
Summary: All she sees are distorted reflections. Asami, after The Aftermath.
She sees it in Mako's eyes, every time she looks at him.
--I love you I love you I love--
--
Republic City is something seen from a dream, glittering with lights. She should be there right now, in an expensive restaurant, in a dress that cost more than most people's Satomobiles, with a handsome man by her side.
There is a rustle of fur and leather, and without looking up, she knows who's coming. Fabrics identified by sound; it is a gift. A useless gift.
Korra plants herself on the steps, then kicks back and stretches with an audible yawn. Asami half-expects her to belch. She's as inappropriate as Bolin during his best days.
"Hey."
It's hard to believe this ungraceful girl is the Avatar, the one who will save them all.
(From what?)
"Hello," Asami says, and she tries to keep her voice as neutral as possible.
Amon, she knows. Amon, Amon, Amon. He is the villain, he is the force, he is what will bring them all to heel, to ruin, to the end.
"You going to bed anytime soon, or should we just set up a tent out here?"
Asami chuckles, a little, and is surprised by how easily the laughter comes. It's been that sort of day, she supposes. The sort that can only be brought about by an Equalist factory under her home, Amon's words issuing from her father's face. The feel of the glove sliding onto her hands, and the look--
She is crying just as quickly as she was laughing, a quicksilver mood swing that has Korra on her feet.
"Should I get Mako?"
Asami looks up at the girl, really looks at her through her tears and the sting of running mascara. It all reduces the Avatar to an unresolved abstract painting, impossibly complex, unfathomably simple in her single-minded drive to do good.
"No." She runs her hands across her eyes, and her palms come away streaked with black and purple. That settles it, then. This brand isn't waterproof, after all.
It's such a ridiculous thought, a stupidly simple thing-- her father is an Equalist, her life is in shambles--
I love you, Father.
She gets up, and walks away, leaving Korra behind her, leaving the lights and sounds and dreams of Republic City at her back.
--
Mako answers the door on the third knock, half dressed and hair rumpled, and from somewhere within, she can hear Bolin snoring, faintly.
"Not enough rooms in the Air temple?" Asami asks, and the joke falls flat, her faint smile not enough to keep it afloat.
"Old habits," Mako says. They've had this conversation before. "What's up?"
"I just--" She fumbles and fights and digs for words, and comes up empty. "I wanted to see you."
He smiles, a bleary, sleepy-happy look that forms a knot in her stomach-- street rat, urchin, dirt-poor, not good enough--
Her father's words ring hollowly in her ears, and Asami steps into Mako's embrace.
Characters/Pairings: Asami/Mako, Korra
Mirrors: Tumblr, FFnet, AO3.
Summary: All she sees are distorted reflections. Asami, after The Aftermath.
She sees it in Mako's eyes, every time she looks at him.
--I love you I love you I love--
--
Republic City is something seen from a dream, glittering with lights. She should be there right now, in an expensive restaurant, in a dress that cost more than most people's Satomobiles, with a handsome man by her side.
There is a rustle of fur and leather, and without looking up, she knows who's coming. Fabrics identified by sound; it is a gift. A useless gift.
Korra plants herself on the steps, then kicks back and stretches with an audible yawn. Asami half-expects her to belch. She's as inappropriate as Bolin during his best days.
"Hey."
It's hard to believe this ungraceful girl is the Avatar, the one who will save them all.
(From what?)
"Hello," Asami says, and she tries to keep her voice as neutral as possible.
Amon, she knows. Amon, Amon, Amon. He is the villain, he is the force, he is what will bring them all to heel, to ruin, to the end.
"You going to bed anytime soon, or should we just set up a tent out here?"
Asami chuckles, a little, and is surprised by how easily the laughter comes. It's been that sort of day, she supposes. The sort that can only be brought about by an Equalist factory under her home, Amon's words issuing from her father's face. The feel of the glove sliding onto her hands, and the look--
She is crying just as quickly as she was laughing, a quicksilver mood swing that has Korra on her feet.
"Should I get Mako?"
Asami looks up at the girl, really looks at her through her tears and the sting of running mascara. It all reduces the Avatar to an unresolved abstract painting, impossibly complex, unfathomably simple in her single-minded drive to do good.
"No." She runs her hands across her eyes, and her palms come away streaked with black and purple. That settles it, then. This brand isn't waterproof, after all.
It's such a ridiculous thought, a stupidly simple thing-- her father is an Equalist, her life is in shambles--
I love you, Father.
She gets up, and walks away, leaving Korra behind her, leaving the lights and sounds and dreams of Republic City at her back.
--
Mako answers the door on the third knock, half dressed and hair rumpled, and from somewhere within, she can hear Bolin snoring, faintly.
"Not enough rooms in the Air temple?" Asami asks, and the joke falls flat, her faint smile not enough to keep it afloat.
"Old habits," Mako says. They've had this conversation before. "What's up?"
"I just--" She fumbles and fights and digs for words, and comes up empty. "I wanted to see you."
He smiles, a bleary, sleepy-happy look that forms a knot in her stomach-- street rat, urchin, dirt-poor, not good enough--
Her father's words ring hollowly in her ears, and Asami steps into Mako's embrace.