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Zuko’s eyes shot open, immediately aware he was awake and he was safe, even as his body clung to panic. His heart raced and his breathing was too fast and too loud in the small room, his muscles tensed and ached with the fight he had been putting up until then, but he just took a deep breath, and schooled his fear into submission.
He was awake now, his father wasn’t there, nor was Azula. His mother wasn’t being harmed before him, and his skin wasn’t still blistering along his face. A long time ago, he might’ve still needed to check, to run a hand over the scarred skin just to tell himself he wasn’t still trapped there, and sometimes, when the panic woke him with a more relentless grip, he still had too. But after so long, after so much, he just woke up, and took his first breath of cool air, forcing himself to relax each muscle, one by one, until his body was limp and he could let it rest.
Internally he ran through his checklists, as he waited for the last dregs of fear to clear from his head. His legs and his shoulder hurt, and when he tried to move his arm there was a deep pain that shot through his back, but it was just the muscles; he wasn’t bleeding this time; he was fine.
Continuing his checks, it came as no surprise his pants were off, but he was disappointed to feel the tears along the front of his shirt from where he must’ve tried to rip it off, and all his bedding save for a pillow that had been thrown to the ground. It must’ve been worse then he realised, but the memories were fading as fast as his mind could get them out of there, sweeping aside the images of Ozai’s hands, of fire curling around Aang with fingerprints carved into the smoke, or Mai’s final glance towards Zuko as Azula took her prisoner.
He was sweaty, and his skin stuck to the concrete under him as he realised he must’ve tossed aside his entire bedroll somehow, trying to return his focus to his task instead of letting it wander back to where he needed to escape from. He was awake now, none of it mattered.
There was nothing he could do for Mai now; There was so much he could do for Aang still. He could figure it all out in the morning, but for now his body was exhausted, and his mind was still filled with a sleepy fog he struggled to shake when he was like this. He couldn’t save anyone like this, he just needed to go back to sleep, tolerate the nightmares until it was time to wake up.
Tears stained his cheeks, and still spilled down his face, but that was fine, that always happened. He took a slow deep breath, and another, before he closed his eyes, and went back to sleep. He could deal with it all in the morning, just like he always had. He just needed to rest while he could, sleep until day broke and he could find the welcome heat of the sun. The night would pass faster if he slept anyway.
So he drifted off into a lifeless sleep, right where he had lain, sticky and cold in a puddle of his own sweat, but it was fine. He had slept worse before, and he never doubted he would again. This nightmare wasn’t that bad in the grand scheme of things.
His throat hadn’t been burned by the panicked steam that often flooded his lungs, and his skin hadn’t been scratched bloody by his blunted nails. His clothes weren’t alight, and his skin didn’t stink of burning flesh like it did when his hands found his scar, remaking the injury as if it was his own fault, searing hands clawing into his own cheek in his desperation.
It had been a long time since it had been that bad, since he had needed Iroh to pin his hands, to wake him up, to deflect the fire he kicked from his panicked legs as the waking and dreaming worlds blurred and the hands on him were all the same.
Compared to that, this was nothing. He wasn’t hurt, beyond whatever he had done to his shoulder, and the other's hadn’t been disturbed. It was fine. He slept well enough, and woke as well rested as he did every other morning.