You'll come back...
It was odd that she’d never felt his eyes, until he’d returned to them; until everything had become so awkward and stiff that it often felt as if she were taking tea with a bare acquaintance, rather than her brother, the man who’d been her sole caretaker for so many years. Today, though, his regard was intense. Not uncomfortable, exactly; not cold, not the chilling, terrible stare of their days in Wales, but heavy nonetheless, and Regan forced herself not to bristle as he shifted slowly in his chair.
They’d done better, in recent weeks, at finding topics of moderate consequence, avoiding the partly-healed wounds of their separation. Talk of Tess made reference to Gwen and Jonathan a bit lighter, and though she’d not seen too much of Joscelin and Romilda herself, she’d been relaying what information Gwen brought home about her adopted brother’s condition and the newborn.
Tristan had been his sister’s world for too long to not read the tension in her slim frame, now softening into womanhood from the frailty her months as his prisoner had caused. He set his coffee on the small side table they’d been using for tea, repressing a sigh.
“Come here,” he requested softly, extending a hand in her direction. The immediate spark of mistrust in the sea-green eyes turned to him was painful, but he maintained the entreaty, watching in silence for her to make a decision.
Surprised, and not a little wary, though she felt guilty for the latter as soon as she realized its presence, Regan rose slowly, making the few steps to her brother’s giant chair to lay her fingertips against his palm. She startled, but didn’t pull away, as his fingers clasped hers, the rough pad of his thumb brushing the back of her hand, and her gaze lifted from the touch to the green-gold of his eyes, leary of the curling sort of feeling that crept upon her.
It was an oddly intimate moment, and a tiny shiver traveled up the paleness of her arm, manifesting a wash of gooseflesh that she tried to rub away. Color rising in her cheeks, her eyes fell from the mesmer of Tristan’s to find the arm of his chair, wishing for the short breaths she drew to cool the twinned licks of heat and panic dancing within her.
The instant flicker of recognition, yearning that leapt between them was both terrifying and reassuring, and Tristan gave the slim paw caught in his own a gentle squeeze, continuing the idle stroke of his thumb until that half-ashamed, half-hopeful face rose just enough for him to address directly. “I’ve missed you, too,” he admitted, covering the rest of her dainty hand with his free one.
Regan bit her lip tightly and nodded, trying not to pull against the beautiful warmth and familiarity of his hands enveloping hers. So simple, and so much; the first real contact since the day he’d returned to himself, and though a part of her was roiling in self-loathing at how easily he’d destroyed her defenses, the greater majority wanted only for him never to let go. Closing her eyes, she gripped his hand in return, feeling all the fragile patching of emotions she’d done since Percy’s dismissal fall utterly to shreds.
There had been comfort, given freely and gladly from Gwen and little Tess, though the child understood only that she could help people not feel so sad, and even from Jonathan; equally quiet in the seeking and the giving. It helped. Gwen’s steadfast love and sometimes blunt advice had been her anchor for more than a year now, and sweet, snuggly Tess was a balm for so many small hurts. Jonathan was a different story, and in some ways they were yet circling one another to dig for any undiscovered triggers, but he was that necessary wall that had been a painful void for so long, and Regan stole moments to borrow his quirky steadiness, hoping it would shore her own still-drying foundations.
None of it was Tristan, though, and now, seized in the actuality of his touch, Regan fought herself not to crumble.
“Sit with me?” This time it was a question, open, and he steeled himself for her response, whatever it might be.
The swift shake of her head made Regan dizzy for a second, and she opened her eyes in time to catch the flash of sorrow that crossed her brother’s. “I can’t,” she whispered, willing him to understand.
Sucking in a shaky breath, she confessed, “I want you to hold me more than I want air to breathe, right now, but I can’t, Tristan.” Angry at the tear that scalded its way down her cheek, she jangled her hand in the pair of his, simultaneously loving and hating how wonderful it felt to know an intentional, affectionate touch from him. “I don’t want to feel this way, but I do.”
Tristan nodded, slowly, and drew over an ottoman without releasing the connection he feared losing entirely. It was the conversation he’d been avoiding for years now, too many of them, and if Regan could put even that much voice to the dreaded topic, he would face it with her. With a gesture to the low seat, he guided her to perch before him, refraining from the instinctive urge to wipe the tear-mark from the soft pink of her cheek.
Indicating their still-linked hands with another squeeze, he asked, gently, “Why does this feel so good?” It did, and he ran his thumb behind her knuckles, trying to memorize or remember the happiness of contact, until he noticed her quashed shudder and her free hand clenched at the edge of the ottoman.
“I don’t know,” Regan dodged, anxiety surging forth to fill the optimistic places coaxed open in the face of remembered love.
“You do,” Tristan prompted quietly, not wanting to push her more than she could cope with, right away. “You’ve missed me, as much as I’ve missed you, yes?”
A nod, lacking the voice stolen by the prickle of tears. It was worse, too, to miss him when he was right in front of her, solid and lucid and there, but still so distant simply because the hurt between them seemed too great to span.
His eyes dropped for a moment, not completely sure he wanted to press for the next answer. “You love me, still?”
The shine of moisture in the green gaze matching his spilled over, trekking down his sister’s fair skin in narrow rivers as her expression disintegrated briefly. “Yes,” Regan managed, slightly choked, adding her free hand to the knot they’d already made. She pet the scar-dimpled flesh beneath her fingers, lifting her head eventually to murmur, “Yes.”
Tristan smiled, a sight yet more rare in the past few months even than before he’d become lost in himself. “That’s the start, then. Why else?”
It was a deep reach to find the courage to form an answer, and too much to watch her brother’s face as she spoke, haltingly. “Safe... you always made me feel safe. I knew nothing could hurt me, not really, so long as I was near you.”
“But I did,” came the low reminder, his handsome, careworn face swimming into view as he ducked his head to catch her gaze. “I hurt you... and worse yet, I frightened you.” It was the worst part, for her to avoid him, when for so very much of her life her first instinct had been to run to him and cling as long and as tightly as he would permit.
He seemed inclined to speak further, but Regan shook her head. “That wasn’t you,” she insisted, clenching her little fingers around his. “Not this you. It wasn’t.” It was the assurance that let her sit in his presence now, to let his skin warm hers and his gaze chase her own as they teased their demons free.
A nod, sign of his willingness to allow her that palladium, prefaced, “What else?”
Expecting the prompt, though it made the words no less difficult to expel, Regan whispered, “I love you... and you were mine. My everything, and I wanted to be that for you...” Her voice failed briefly and she sniffed, shaking her head slowly. “I never was, though.”
“You were not meant to be, nor I for you,” murmured Tristan, taking care to keep his voice even. It was what he’d been trying to convey for years, all the while caught up in letting her have as much of himself as he could live with. Shame on him, perhaps, but he loved her and it was done, now, regardless.
His hand lifted, seemingly without permission, to raise her chin, now damp with tears. Her pale lashes were spiky with grief as he offered, “Not as you might have wished, perhaps, but I do love you. Always and ever.”
“I know that, now.” The words were raspy, half-choked, but she forced them out, along with “I love you,” as she crawled from the ottoman to the chair, letting herself be lifted into Tristan’s lap.
Too familiar to have been wholly forgotten, the warmth and security of his arms tight around her loosed the ragged ties on all else she’d been holding in for so long, and Regan hid her face in her brother’s neck to sob regret and loss and longing. His fingers stroked the fall of her hair, steady and sure; the comforting touch she’d known before their shared life had disintegrated, and she did not see the bead of relief trailing down his weathered cheek as he pressed a kiss to her temple.
Though he shushed her quietly, Tristan was sure Regan’s tears would not end so soon, and he was thankful rather than bothered; they needed this, both of them, and her crying cleansed some of his hurt as well as her own. That it would wash away the divide between them, he could only hope, but the fact that she was in his arms once more was a gift he’d not dared expect.
Hope, then.
Summary: Tristan and Regan finally have a difficult conversation.
They’d done better, in recent weeks, at finding topics of moderate consequence, avoiding the partly-healed wounds of their separation. Talk of Tess made reference to Gwen and Jonathan a bit lighter, and though she’d not seen too much of Joscelin and Romilda herself, she’d been relaying what information Gwen brought home about her adopted brother’s condition and the newborn.
Tristan had been his sister’s world for too long to not read the tension in her slim frame, now softening into womanhood from the frailty her months as his prisoner had caused. He set his coffee on the small side table they’d been using for tea, repressing a sigh.
“Come here,” he requested softly, extending a hand in her direction. The immediate spark of mistrust in the sea-green eyes turned to him was painful, but he maintained the entreaty, watching in silence for her to make a decision.
Surprised, and not a little wary, though she felt guilty for the latter as soon as she realized its presence, Regan rose slowly, making the few steps to her brother’s giant chair to lay her fingertips against his palm. She startled, but didn’t pull away, as his fingers clasped hers, the rough pad of his thumb brushing the back of her hand, and her gaze lifted from the touch to the green-gold of his eyes, leary of the curling sort of feeling that crept upon her.
It was an oddly intimate moment, and a tiny shiver traveled up the paleness of her arm, manifesting a wash of gooseflesh that she tried to rub away. Color rising in her cheeks, her eyes fell from the mesmer of Tristan’s to find the arm of his chair, wishing for the short breaths she drew to cool the twinned licks of heat and panic dancing within her.
The instant flicker of recognition, yearning that leapt between them was both terrifying and reassuring, and Tristan gave the slim paw caught in his own a gentle squeeze, continuing the idle stroke of his thumb until that half-ashamed, half-hopeful face rose just enough for him to address directly. “I’ve missed you, too,” he admitted, covering the rest of her dainty hand with his free one.
Regan bit her lip tightly and nodded, trying not to pull against the beautiful warmth and familiarity of his hands enveloping hers. So simple, and so much; the first real contact since the day he’d returned to himself, and though a part of her was roiling in self-loathing at how easily he’d destroyed her defenses, the greater majority wanted only for him never to let go. Closing her eyes, she gripped his hand in return, feeling all the fragile patching of emotions she’d done since Percy’s dismissal fall utterly to shreds.
There had been comfort, given freely and gladly from Gwen and little Tess, though the child understood only that she could help people not feel so sad, and even from Jonathan; equally quiet in the seeking and the giving. It helped. Gwen’s steadfast love and sometimes blunt advice had been her anchor for more than a year now, and sweet, snuggly Tess was a balm for so many small hurts. Jonathan was a different story, and in some ways they were yet circling one another to dig for any undiscovered triggers, but he was that necessary wall that had been a painful void for so long, and Regan stole moments to borrow his quirky steadiness, hoping it would shore her own still-drying foundations.
None of it was Tristan, though, and now, seized in the actuality of his touch, Regan fought herself not to crumble.
“Sit with me?” This time it was a question, open, and he steeled himself for her response, whatever it might be.
The swift shake of her head made Regan dizzy for a second, and she opened her eyes in time to catch the flash of sorrow that crossed her brother’s. “I can’t,” she whispered, willing him to understand.
Sucking in a shaky breath, she confessed, “I want you to hold me more than I want air to breathe, right now, but I can’t, Tristan.” Angry at the tear that scalded its way down her cheek, she jangled her hand in the pair of his, simultaneously loving and hating how wonderful it felt to know an intentional, affectionate touch from him. “I don’t want to feel this way, but I do.”
Tristan nodded, slowly, and drew over an ottoman without releasing the connection he feared losing entirely. It was the conversation he’d been avoiding for years now, too many of them, and if Regan could put even that much voice to the dreaded topic, he would face it with her. With a gesture to the low seat, he guided her to perch before him, refraining from the instinctive urge to wipe the tear-mark from the soft pink of her cheek.
Indicating their still-linked hands with another squeeze, he asked, gently, “Why does this feel so good?” It did, and he ran his thumb behind her knuckles, trying to memorize or remember the happiness of contact, until he noticed her quashed shudder and her free hand clenched at the edge of the ottoman.
“I don’t know,” Regan dodged, anxiety surging forth to fill the optimistic places coaxed open in the face of remembered love.
“You do,” Tristan prompted quietly, not wanting to push her more than she could cope with, right away. “You’ve missed me, as much as I’ve missed you, yes?”
A nod, lacking the voice stolen by the prickle of tears. It was worse, too, to miss him when he was right in front of her, solid and lucid and there, but still so distant simply because the hurt between them seemed too great to span.
His eyes dropped for a moment, not completely sure he wanted to press for the next answer. “You love me, still?”
The shine of moisture in the green gaze matching his spilled over, trekking down his sister’s fair skin in narrow rivers as her expression disintegrated briefly. “Yes,” Regan managed, slightly choked, adding her free hand to the knot they’d already made. She pet the scar-dimpled flesh beneath her fingers, lifting her head eventually to murmur, “Yes.”
Tristan smiled, a sight yet more rare in the past few months even than before he’d become lost in himself. “That’s the start, then. Why else?”
It was a deep reach to find the courage to form an answer, and too much to watch her brother’s face as she spoke, haltingly. “Safe... you always made me feel safe. I knew nothing could hurt me, not really, so long as I was near you.”
“But I did,” came the low reminder, his handsome, careworn face swimming into view as he ducked his head to catch her gaze. “I hurt you... and worse yet, I frightened you.” It was the worst part, for her to avoid him, when for so very much of her life her first instinct had been to run to him and cling as long and as tightly as he would permit.
He seemed inclined to speak further, but Regan shook her head. “That wasn’t you,” she insisted, clenching her little fingers around his. “Not this you. It wasn’t.” It was the assurance that let her sit in his presence now, to let his skin warm hers and his gaze chase her own as they teased their demons free.
A nod, sign of his willingness to allow her that palladium, prefaced, “What else?”
Expecting the prompt, though it made the words no less difficult to expel, Regan whispered, “I love you... and you were mine. My everything, and I wanted to be that for you...” Her voice failed briefly and she sniffed, shaking her head slowly. “I never was, though.”
“You were not meant to be, nor I for you,” murmured Tristan, taking care to keep his voice even. It was what he’d been trying to convey for years, all the while caught up in letting her have as much of himself as he could live with. Shame on him, perhaps, but he loved her and it was done, now, regardless.
His hand lifted, seemingly without permission, to raise her chin, now damp with tears. Her pale lashes were spiky with grief as he offered, “Not as you might have wished, perhaps, but I do love you. Always and ever.”
“I know that, now.” The words were raspy, half-choked, but she forced them out, along with “I love you,” as she crawled from the ottoman to the chair, letting herself be lifted into Tristan’s lap.
Too familiar to have been wholly forgotten, the warmth and security of his arms tight around her loosed the ragged ties on all else she’d been holding in for so long, and Regan hid her face in her brother’s neck to sob regret and loss and longing. His fingers stroked the fall of her hair, steady and sure; the comforting touch she’d known before their shared life had disintegrated, and she did not see the bead of relief trailing down his weathered cheek as he pressed a kiss to her temple.
Though he shushed her quietly, Tristan was sure Regan’s tears would not end so soon, and he was thankful rather than bothered; they needed this, both of them, and her crying cleansed some of his hurt as well as her own. That it would wash away the divide between them, he could only hope, but the fact that she was in his arms once more was a gift he’d not dared expect.
Hope, then.
Summary: Tristan and Regan finally have a difficult conversation.