CW: mentions of physical abuse
Toph Beifong is thirty-five years old, and nothing surprises her. Her seismic sense tells her where everything is, from the tiniest ant to the largest man. There is no such thing as being startled when you have that much power under the soles of your feet.
Except when there is.
If there's one thing Toph dislikes more than council meetings, it's the after parties. Drunk men trying to feel her up in some sleazy bar all night isn't exactly her idea of fun. She isn't sure why she even goes anymore, but somehow, after the meeting concludes, she gets swept up in her coworkers' movements and suddenly she's on her third drink and sandwiched between two perfectly suitable men during the day who are utterly and completely wasted during the night.
Tonight is no different, except that she manages to slip away from the usual hopeful drunks a bit earlier this time. She slinks away to the far corner of the bar, her eyes downcast, and orders a few shots. Downing the first, she sits on a stool and doesn't notice the footsteps approaching her until their owner is seated next to her.
"Keeping away from the crowd?"
Sighing, she sets the shot glass down and smirks. "Always," she says. Sokka grins.
"And here I would've thought you'd enjoy the attention," he teases. "Isn't that, like, your whole thing?"
"I like when I get the attention I deserve." She gestures vaguely to their many colleagues. "This? Not the kind of thing that you write home about."
He laughs, and her heart leaps. "Yeah, I guess I see what you mean. Of course, we all know I have the same problem."
"Oh, yeah, Snoozles? You got guys falling down at your feet?"
"You know it."
She downs her second round and signals for a third. He joins in her plea, and soon they're clinking their glasses with their heads bent together, laughing about old times and talking about everything and anything. She rarely gets to just sit and talk with her old friends anymore.
"So what are you even doing here?" she asks, waving her glass about. "You're on leave until next year."
He shrugs, his voice warbled. "I was in the mood for a drink. Knew there was a budget thing for the force tonight, figured I'd see you here."
"Oh, okay. Stalker much?"
"Hilarious," he says, shoving her lightly. She giggles, which she's done maybe once in her life, and nearly topples out of her chair. He grabs her by the hand before she falls, and her laugh turns into a cough. He rights her steadily.
"How'd you get this?" he asks, rubbing her thumb delicately. She feels a few chills despite the crowded bar.
"Oh, that. I fought a stove and the stove won."
"Why would you fight a stove? The stove always wins, everyone knows that."
"Occupational hazard, I guess."
"Hm." He lets go of her hand and it drops onto the table. "Well, lucky for you guys dig injuries."
"Because then they have so much in common with us?"
"Yep. Check this out." He rolls up his sleeve and puts her fingers on his arm. She feels a thin scratch, bumpy and uneven. "Cut myself with a knife just last month. Four stitches."
"Four?"
"Katara had to sew me back up."
She slaps the table and laughs. "Four stitches? Oh, Spirits, that's adorable. Four."
