[If it were just the bunny spirit, it'd be grabbed up and held for all it was worth. Toph's fingers contact the cool, misty creature in her lap in response to its administrations -- a quick, light touch like a reflex, surprised by the affection and the sudden weight of its body yielded to her.]

[But between it and Bumi, it's too much. She's supposed to be alone; this is supposed to be private, and the old man is staying, not going away. He's in her space; he's refusing to leave . . . it rubs a wound already raw; it breaks it open. The rumble around them grows, demanding and insistent, and her hands come up to his chest, shove him for all she's worth, likely spilling the spirit from her lap. Her mind explodes miniature fireworks of pain; she shoves it into her rage.]

You think you can just come in here -- that you're so well-meaning? You can save everyone; you can help everyone because you know better? What gives you that right? Because you're an adult, and I'm some helpless little kid that shouldn't know right from left?

I carry my own weight. I still will, even if my bending's gone, and I can't see and this stupid earthquake is so loud and I can't even feel it--

I'm not weak. I'm not helpless. I'm not.