Chapter Text
It had been just over a month since Ayla started working at Jiang’s. The work was good, the food was better, and the location was divine; walking distance from her apartment, which meant no more crowded transit cars or sprinting after the last evening tram. A miracle, really.
Tucked away from the tourist-heavy part of town, the place didn’t get the suffocating waves of customers her last job had. Jiang’s was a small hole-in-the-wall between the hospital and the precinct, which meant the clientele was basically medical staff, exhausted healers, and a rotating group of rookie metalbenders and detectives who came in loud, hungry, and full of stories from patrols.
And then there was her.
Ayla’s gaze drifted toward the bar, where Chief Beifong sat alone, quietly sipping her drink as she made notes on what looked like a casefile while she waited for her takeout order. She came here often, every few nights like clockwork, but Ayla’s attempts at polite conversation or friendly banter had always bounced right off her. She'd never been rude, just… her attempts at conversation were rarely reciprocated. But the dining room was dead, Ayla was bored, and she was the only interesting thing in a twenty-foot radius. Fine. Great. Sure. Death wish activated. She grabbed a rack of clean glasses for cover and approached. “So, is this your favorite restaurant?”
She didn’t look up. “What about it?”
Ayla stared at her, surprised she’d gotten anything resembling a response. She covered it with a grin. “Nothing. Just making conversation. I’ve seen you here a few times.”
“The other bartender doesn’t pester me this much.”
Ayla put a hand to her chest in slightly exaggerated offense. “Is that why you put your order in with Kira tonight? I’m hurt.” A faint eye-roll. Then she went right back to her notes. Okay. Well. That went… about as well as expected. Ayla turned, stacking glasses on the shelf behind the bar, until she heard a quiet, put-upon sigh from behind her. “It’s on the way home from work.”
Ayla looked over her shoulder. “The precinct, yeah?” Smooth, Ayla. Really subtle. Bend me into a hole actually.
Chief Beifong held her gaze for a beat, unimpressed. “Obviously,” she replied. “Do you have a point?”
“Damn, Chief, so testy. Long day?” The glare she got in return could have melted glass. Ayla took the hint and backed off, busying herself wiping menus and pretending she wasn’t full with victory from having gotten a full, well, she used full loosely, conversation out of the city’s most famously untalkative cop. Eventually the cook called out, “Food’s up,” and Ayla bagged the order and slid it across the bar. She downed the last of her drink, set a handful of coins on the counter, and stood to leave. “Hope your night gets better, Chief,” Ayla offered.
“Doubtful,” she replied, already stalking toward the door.
Ayla watched her go, eyebrows raised. Wow. That woman is held together by nothing but spite. She thought back to the other times that she had seen her at the bar. It was as if Chief Beifong wore a permanent scowl on her face, her eyebrows furrowed by whatever unfortunate piece of paper was in front of her. Which, to be fair, some of the columnists in the paper she sometimes reads could stand to write with a little more nuance. No Ayla, that’s not the point.
Kira walked up and tossed a wet rag into the bin on the floor. “I can’t believe you actually got her to talk. I gave up ages ago.”
Ayla snorted. “I wouldn’t call that talking. She barely gave me three sentences.”
“Still more than she gives me. I swear she hates me.”
“She does not hate you. If anything, she hates me now because I told her she was being testy.”
“…You must really have a death wish.”
Hours later, Ayla locked the restaurant doors and headed into the night on her now familiar walk home. Warm light spilled from apartment windows above, and the faint sound of a radio drifted down from somewhere nearby.
She loved Republic City. She’d been living here for almost ten years now and had managed to carve out a small life for herself. It wasn’t easy, but so far it had been worth it. Mostly. Growing up with her dad in the United Forces, they had moved around a lot. Her childhood was spent moving between a hodgepodge of outposts throughout the Fire and Earth Nations where her father was stationed as a mid-ranking officer. His status meant that he was kept near base for logistics and training operations, with minimal field deployments, but the benefits of having him around more came at the cost of uprooting her life every time a new outpost needed assistance.
New towns, new cultures, new temporary friends. Never enough time to belong. Republic City had been her first real attempt at staying put. Even now, though, she wasn’t sure she’d gotten it right. She couldn't quite kick the habit of starting over every couple years. Every fresh start made it easier to leave before anyone noticed the cracks, and she felt like she had lived a half dozen different lives since coming to the city.
She tucked her hands deeper into her coat pockets, quickening her pace against the spring chill. At her building’s door, she stepped around a pile of boxes one neighbor had left out, climbed the softly lit stairwell, and passed a unit where a loud, indignant voice shouted something about an “immoral card play.” Ayla couldn’t help smiling.
Climbing to the third floor, she unlocked her door and slipped inside, closing it softly behind her. Ayla set her bag down, tossing her coat onto the back of a wooden chair, and poured herself a glass of water. She felt stuck. As much as she loved fast paced, lively restaurant jobs, part of her wondered if this was it for her. Republic city is full of opportunities, her mother had said. You’ll do just fine. Maybe you can get a job working for a museum, or as a reporter because of all the traveling you’ve been able to do. Instead, it made her feel lost. She had no idea who she was, what she wanted, or how to go about figuring it out. Stagnant. Ayla plopped down onto the couch with a groan and started untying her boots.
In the beginning, she found herself caught up in the daily grind and churn of the city, just trying to get on her feet. Before she knew it, years had passed, and she was still right where she was when she arrived. The size of the city made it easy to remain relatively anonymous, so each time she felt too comfortable, she could initiate a fresh start at a new job, in a new apartment, with new neighbors. She always loved the beginnings of things, it made it easy to hide parts of herself. It was what came later, once the thrill of starting over wore off, that consistently proved to be more of a problem.
In theory, her exposure to so many places could have been leveraged to find all sorts of jobs. The city boasted itself on being an unprecedented blend of culture, a center for trade, and the forefront of progress and change. Instead of an even blend of the three dominant cultures, the city had formed a culture of its own. There was finally a place for her, someone who didn’t quite fit in anywhere. This apartment was her favorite so far. It was small, a studio, but it had windows overlooking the bay through a break in nearby buildings and she could sometimes make out the lights from passing ships. She heaved herself up from the couch and set about cleaning up for bed. It was enough, for now.
~*~~*~~*~
“Chief Beifong,” Ayla said, sliding behind the bar with a folded cloth in hand, “lovely as always to see you.” She had slipped in so quietly Ayla had almost missed her. She sat in her usual spot, posture straight, eyes scanning the menu like she didn’t have it memorized.
She flicked her gaze up just long enough to acknowledge her, then returned to the menu. Ayla pressed on anyway. “Nice evening, don’t you think? Snow finally started to melt.” She hummed but didn’t look up, and Ayla sighed. “I don’t know why you look at the menu when you get the same thing every time.” She poured her usual drink and nudged a water glass over with it.
“I do not.”
Ayla’s heart did a stupid, triumphant little kick. She responded. Oh thank god. This was getting awkward. “Chief, I’m the one putting in your order most nights. You absolutely do.”
“You’ve put in my order less than ten times,” she countered. “I hardly call that ‘every time.’”
“Oh, so you’ve kept count? I’m flattered.”
“I have not.”
“Sure. Alright then, what’ll it be? If not what you get every time.”
It was subtle, but Ayla saw it: the tightening around her eyes when she realized she’d been cornered. Ayla bit back a smile and took the new order, scribbling something extra on the slip before handing it through the window.
After greeting a couple at the far end of the bar and pouring their drinks, she drifted back toward the other end of the bar. Instead of paperwork, Chief Beifong had the day’s newspaper open, edges crisp and folded. “Anything interesting?” Ayla asked. “I haven’t read the paper in a few days.”
“Just the usual.” She didn’t look up. “Useless bureaucratic nonsense. Pro-bending highlights from matches I’m too busy to attend. Same garbage, different day.”
“You’re into pro-bending?”
A shrug. “Used to. I haven’t been to a match in years.”
Ayla grabbed the boxed order from the window, bagged it neatly, and brought it over. “Well,” she said, “maybe this season will change that.”
“Unlikely.” Ayla slid the food over, and tried her best not to look suspicious about it. She did not buy it. “What did you put in there?”
“Nothing,” Ayla replied. “Just your receipt. Have a good night, Chief.” She watched her leave, twisting her fingers anxiously. It wasn’t just the receipt. She always ordered a small side of potstickers but had skipped them tonight after Ayla’s teasing. Trying to fix it, Ayla had added them back into the order and left a note explaining they were on the house. Sighing, she slipped a couple coins from her apron and deposited them in the register before returning to her closing routine. This is what you get for pushing, Ayla. Spirits.
On her walk home, Ayla paused by the corner store beneath her apartment and bought a copy of the paper from the metal dispenser. She tucked it under her arm, grabbed a few groceries, and headed upstairs. Inside, she stored the food, leaving the new bag of coffee on the counter for morning, then sat at her table and spread the newspaper open. Kira had mentioned some unrest at the ports, yelling, someone shooting a metalbender cop with a firework, but had no details. Ayla flipped through the pages until a headline caught her eye:
Equalist Unrest Reaches New Heights as Demonstrators Cause Chaos at the Ports
She read about slashed tires, stopped cargo shipments, the quoted protester explaining that non-bender labor held up the city more than anyone cared to admit. They weren’t wrong. Ayla chewed at her lip. She’d heard the arguments, on both sides, and tried to steer conversations back to neutral when restaurant patrons brought them up. The whole thing always seemed ready to explode.
She just wasn’t sure what the solution was. Non-benders weren’t the only ones trapped in the endless slog of trying to survive in rough, low paying jobs. The chef at Jiangs, for example, had spent his younger years worked to the bone as a firebender in one of the steel manufacturing facilities across the river. She also knew a couple waterbenders who were paid next to nothing to climb into the sewers below the city to unclog Koh knows what from the lines. It was true that wealth tended to be disproportionately divided with benders at the top, and that the council did not have any non-benders, but it was more complicated than simply ‘benders bad, equalists good’. It was messy. And it felt like no one wanted to admit that.
Her mind flicked back to Chief Beifong at the bar. Was this the ‘bureaucratic nonsense’ she meant? No, probably bridge construction delays. Or council infighting. Or some operational nightmare Ayla couldn’t imagine. Still… Ayla realized she didn’t know anything about her beyond her title. And she definitely wasn’t going to ask.
~*~~*~~*~
It was a Tuesday evening, the first slightly warm one in weeks. Earlier that afternoon, Ayla had cracked open the windows and propped the front door to bring in the humid spring air. She was stacking clean glasses behind the bar when a low voice came from behind her. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Ayla didn’t need to turn to recognize who was speaking. It had been about a week since she’d last seen her, but that voice was unmistakable. Biting back her smile, Ayla turned. “Do what?”
“You know what.”
“Drawing a blank. I do a lot of things.” She grinned openly now as she poured a measure of whiskey and slid the glass toward her.
She leveled her with a flat look. “My order.”
“Oh, that?” Ayla said lightly. “Chef made too many. Tragic waste avoidance. Your order happened to be conveniently nearby.”
“Mm,” she said, unconvinced. Ayla jotted down her order and passed it into the kitchen window before leaving her to her paperwork. Back to her usual. Balance is restored once again. There was something almost comforting about the return of the equilibrium.
Fifteen minutes later, she slid the order across the bar. She was so absorbed in the paperwork in front of her she barely noticed at first. Her eyes flicked to the bag, then she quickly finished her drink.
“No note today?” she asked.
Ayla leaned forward on her elbows, tilting her head. “Why, did you want one?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Was that heat crawling up her throat? No. Absolutely not. Ayla ignored the tiny spark of triumph warming her ribs.
“Relax, Chief. I’m just strategically flirting. It’s all part of my plan to convince you to drop all the heinous charges on my record. Is it working?”
She shot her a look that could flatten concrete. “No.”
“Damn.” Ayla laughed, ripping the used pages off her notepad and crumpling them just to give her hands something to do now that her pulse had decided to be annoying again.
There was a beat of silence, then she said dryly, “Toss in a free drink and then we can talk.”
Ayla froze. Her head snapped up. “Did you just joke with me?”
“Don’t get used to it.” A brief pause. “Were you serious about the charges? Do you actually have a record?”
“Aren’t you the cop?” Ayla countered. “If anyone would know, it’s you.”
“Would I?”
“I guess that’s for you to figure out then, Chief.”
She rolled her eyes, but the motion lacked teeth. She grabbed the bag, stood, and said, “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”
The sounds of her metal boots grew fainter as she exited through the open door. Ayla laughed as she called out, “Saying you won’t respond is still a response!” Ayla sagged against the counter with a sigh, rubbing her forehead. Why had she slipped those extra potstickers into the bag in the first place? What exactly was she doing? This was Chief of Police Lin Beifong. Someone Ayla had never expected to talk to, let alone… whatever this was turning into. All week she’d been stuck on early shifts, and every day she’d caught herself wondering if she had come in and missed her. Wondering if she noticed her absence. Wondering if she cared. Ayla, get a grip, she told herself sternly. She doesn’t wonder about you. She barely even talks to you. But the thought wouldn’t leave the back of her head.
She was still trying to shove down the thought when the door opened forcefully. "And I'm telling you, they don't give a damn," a man snapped as he pushed through the door. "My brother got fired today, and guess who took his spot? Some earthbender foreman's nephew. No experience. Doesn't matter, cause he can move loads with his damn hands, so suddenly he's 'more efficient'." They settled at the bar as Ayla poured two glasses of water and slid menus across. The man looked at Ayla, laughing bitterly, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "Tell me how that's fair."