Response to this prompt sent to me on tumblr: "Hi :) I don't know if you're taking prompts, but well here I go A mother daughter moment between Jinora and Pema when she shaves her head or Senna and Korra, Senna healing her daughter and giving her that comfort only moms can give :) I think I'm homesick hehe :/"

I opted for a moment between Senna and Korra.

Word Count: ~1000

Rating: K

The rumble of thunder drags Korra from her sleep and refuses to let her slip back into her restless slumber. Rolling slowly onto her side, she watches as the rain slaps against the glass and splatters across the window sill, staining the wood inside as it sneaks into her room through the gap Jinora had left open for her. ("Fresh air, even while inside, will be nice," the newly-tattooed girl had said to her, a gentle smile on her face.)

She could try to fight the sound of the storm. She could throw her pillow over her head and drown out the sound, force herself up and test if her legs will carry her to the open window to shut out the booms and cracks.

But, she's tired. Her limbs feel like lead and her eyelids keep fluttering open even when she shuts them. If she stays in bed, she doesn't have to find out for the umpteenth day in a row that her arms still aren't strong enough to push the weight of her body into a sitting position or that her legs still won't hold her for more than a few seconds. If she stays in bed, she doesn't have to cope with the fact that, even if she could hold herself up, it wouldn't give back to her whatever part of her had slipped away in these last few weeks.

A series of taps emanate from her door, a soft but insistent sound she has come to recognize as her mother's knock, and, when her mom opens the door to peek in, she's pitifully grateful that it saves her the energy of testing out her voice, allows her mind to linger in a wordless fog for a little longer.

"Korra, are you awake?"

She nods against her pillow, feels each muscle that forces her neck and head to do so, but fails to look away from the rivulets that race one another down her window. The light breaking into her room through the crack in the door grows before she hears the click of the door closing and her mother's steady steps crossing to her. The smell of something sweet, something gingery, perfumes the room, a tea she recognizes from Pema's collection. She feels the slightest bit guilty about the number of cups that have gone to waste, left untouched on the bedside table.

The mattress dips with her mother's weight when she sits upon the edge before she glances at her (she can feel her gaze and pretends she can't see the worry etching wrinkles in her mom's face as it settles in the pinched corners of her mouth). She hardly notices when her mother begins tracking her hand through the tangles of her unkempt hair, a nest of snarled knots upon the pillow, and her mom's sight shifts to the window.

"Do you remember when you were little and we'd make thunderstorms?" Her mom's touch is gentle as it works through each knot that pauses the motion of her hand, unhurried like the small drops that crawl down the glass outside instead of race.

"You'd sit in the tub and bend water before letting if fall over your head, while I'd hit the sides of the basin to make 'thunder,'" she says, before she smiles gently at the memory. Korra vaguely remembers moments like that, messy bath times that created puddles on the floor around them, and her mother continues in her silence. "Or, if that 'thunder' wasn't loud enough, your father would come in and start "booming" himself before bending all the water in the tub over you in a downpour."

Senna laughs lightly at that and Korra likes the way it eases away the tightness she has seen in her mother's face recently, likes it enough that she feels her own mouth pull in a way that has become foreign to her, strains the unused muscles in her cheeks. (The strain is nice, though, even if she is tired.)

Korra wonders how long they sit in silence, her mother's hand soft upon her scalp as the rumble of the damp, grey day seeps into her room. She fades in and out of sleep then, sometimes awaking to the scent of ginger tea, sometimes the recollected, heavy scent of the jerky drying in their kitchen. Sometimes, she hears the boom and crack of the thunder and rain outside before she's surrounded by a snapping, crackling fire that fills her ears with its staccato pops and warms her skin in their small house. She almost can feel the flour dust on her mother's hands that she had tried to rub away before brushing warm, fingers over her cheek, wishing her luck on her first day of training.

"Would you like me to close the window, Korra?"

Her mother's voice momentarily pulls her from her haze. Opening her eyes once more, she looks out at the window before shaking her head against her pillow, the hand running through her hair pausing in the process.

"It's alright." Her voice sounds gravely. Weak. Nothing like her. It bothers her, but when she sees her mom's eyes light up a bit at her response, she continues. "Thanks Mom."

"Of course, sweetie."

As the thunderstorm booms and cracks outside her window, the motion of her mother's hand begins again, gently brushing through her hair despite the fact that the knots have long since been untangled. And for the first time in weeks, she feels a little less tired, a timid sense of hope replacing the grey.