A knobby knee presses into an old scar, and a young man stumbles.
His back is on fire, spine burning, shoulders aching, and he can't think, can't see, the world is blinding white light and unbearable pain and a desperately buried memory. For a moment, he feels like is falling again, spiralling down and down and down, and his feet can't seem to find the ground, his twitching hands are uselessly grasping for something, anything to hold onto.
"Dad!", a little voice shouts, unbothered, oblivious, over the ringing in his ears. "Daddy, guess what, guess what!"
His fingers hit ... something, and he holds on frightfully, nails digging deep into the only thing that feels real anymore, the only thing keeping him standing, as he tries to breathe, but his chest is tight and his body is heavy. The air he's commanded so easily for most of his life refuses to fill his lungs.
And then an arm wraps around him, pulls him close, at least he thinks that's what it is, and the weight on his back scrambles higher, little feet in his sides, and the knee is gone, and the pain ebbs away, slowly, and he lands, somewhat safely.
He gasps for air.
Bumi rambles on excitedly.
Toph's shoulder must be red under his white-knuckled grip, but he can't bring himself to loosen it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"What's wrong?", she whispers, trying to hide her alarm.
"I ...", he swallows, shakes his head. "It's nothing. He just touched my scar."
She blinks. Her brow is furrowed.
"I've touched your scar."
"Yeah, well", his voice is hoarse, barely audible, and in his head swirl pictures of Ba Sing Se and month-long dreams, "you've never rammed your knee into it after catapulting yourself onto my back."
She tucks herself under his arm.
He leans onto her more than he'd like to admit.
–oOo–
There are still nights he wakes up screaming.
There are still nights she wakes up with a racing heart.
They cling to each other, in those nights, her legs entwined with his, his nose buried in her loose dark hair, and there is nothing that matters, then, in those nights, in those quiet, anguished moments, nothing but their embrace, nothing but them.
His breath is hot on her skin when he sobs and chokes on words, on past regret and ever-present guilt, and she doesn't need him to talk, not anymore, to understand, but she doesn't interrupt. She doesn't say a word, just holds onto him tighter, kisses his face and wipes away tears, because she knows he'll wrap himself around her, protective, a giant, when she wakes up falling, slipping from a boy's sweaty hand. And she doesn't like being made feel small, but she likes being tiny in his arms.
"It'll be alright", he rasps.
"It will", she breathes.
Neither of them believes the other, not then, not now, but in the morning, when they are tired and their eyes burn after a sleepless night, a child will shout for them, another crawl into their bed, forcing himself between them, something will crash and a newly cracking voice will promise hastily that everything is alright.
And then it is.
For a while, it is.
–oOo–
The children ask, of course.
Eventually.
After the scars and the battles and the bags under their eyes on certain mornings.
They don't send them to school for nothing, after all, they can't expect them to learn about the war, learn that their aunts and uncles, their Mom and Dad had played such an instrumental part in ending it, and not ask questions.
Aang's good at answering those.
He never lies, of course, but he dances around the truth masterfully, and knows just when to mention the birthday party for a bear they had attended once to distract them from the Crystal Catacombs and crackling lightning.
Toph never knows quite what to say.
Which is rare, she supposes, and the kids soon learn to stay away from heavy topics, to ask about the Earth Rumble rather than the Day of Black Sun, even if they've heard every story she's told about the former about a hundred times by now.
It's hard to be honest with them.
Neither of them wants the kids to even think about what they'd gone through.
And it's hard to realise just how young they are in these stories, those history books, their memories, hard to see their oldest son turn twelve, all chubby cheeks and bright smiles, and he's taller than Aang had been, at least Sokka's sure of that, and he is a baby.
He is a tiny, small child, and he's safe, and he will never have to fight a war, they will make sure of that.
"I can't imagine how my parents must've felt", she mumbles once, when they've tucked the older kids in and Kavi is sleeping between them.
"You were right to leave."
"Not right to run into war! I didn't know what I was getting myself into."
"I don't think any of us quite did", he sighs. "But it's over now. And they're all here, safe and sound. Even checked for monsters under Tenzin's bed."
She smiles a tired smile.
"We should visit soon …"
"Your parents?"
"Hmmm."