When he was six you hugged him every time he awoke from a terrible nightmare. Crying out in the dark he would reach for you, and you were there, always right there, ready to hold him and rub him and reassure him that even though mom and dad were gone you would never leave him.
When he was eight you bandaged his torn knees after a hard topple during a streetmatch. There was blood everywhere and it seemed like half the skin was missing, but you had a supply of fresh white bandages ready for situations like this. Afterwards you kissed his legs right above the wounds, and he looked up at you and giggled through his tears.
When he was eleven you stayed up with him all night long when he had the flu. He was moaning and thrashing on the cot and you held him still, forcing him to drink water and carefully sponging off his sweaty forehead with a damp rag. In his delirium he called you mom several times, but you decided not to tell him about it afterwards, not even when he infuriated you.
When he was thirteen you held his hand as he got stiches on his shoulder. Biting his lip and maintaining a stoic expression, only his squeezes on your fingers indicated that he felt pain. When it was over you told him how proud of him you were, how grown up he was now, and he flashed you a grin a mile wide before running back to play with his friends.
When he was fifteen you rubbed his back while he cried after his first breakup. He was laying on his stomach and had his head buried in the pillow, and you sat down next to him as he muffled his sobs. Suddenly he was sitting up, clutching at your front, and you wrapped your arms around him tightly. You felt your heart breaking at his sadness even as your shirt became damper and damper.
But now Bolin is sixteen and you have no idea what to do. You have him back from his encounter with Amon, and he still has his bending, thank the spirits. It was only after he was safely home that you noticed the bruises on his arms and the bloodstains on his pants. When you ask him what happened he starts to tremble and his eyes won't meet yours. You press him, and eventually he tells you, shaking and looking at the floor, that Amon's guards had forced themselves on him last night, and you can't think of any possible way to react to this. Sitting and staring seems appropriate, and his lips are quivering and you don't even think to reach for him.
You haven't felt rage like this since the night your parents were murdered. Fire seethes inside of you, and suddenly you cry out in pain. Your hands are smoking and are wrapped in flames, as if you were once again a small child with no control. You shake the sparks out, glad that your leather gloves are there to protect your palms.
He starts to cry and your reaction is instantaneous, instinctual. You cross the space between you and embrace him tightly. You love him so much, so fucking much, and impossible emotions are coursing through your chest: indescribable rage, a horrible pity, and the deepest sadness that you have ever experienced. For him, for what was done to him, for what he has lost. You hold him and you rub him and you angrily brush the tears out of your eyes before he can see them. You have to be strong for him, there for him, ready to comfort him.
Just like you always have been.