Her expression alone told him that four weeks was too long to wait between real visits. Regan's breath escaped in a little rush as she burrowed inside his coat, arms wrapped around him, cheek pressed to his chest, eyes tightly closed. Tristan held her a moment, his hands moving soothingly over her hair, letting her hide and breathe; decompress after what must have been a stressful week. The headmistress had hovered in the door briefly after leading Regan in, but was gone when Tristan looked up. Just as well.


He'd reached an understanding with the woman years before, when Regan had started school, and though he could always tell that she disapproved of how often Regan left school for weekends, she'd made a point not to say anything. It had been made clear that in order for Beauxbatons to continue drawing tuition fees from the Bole accounts, he would be seeing Regan when he chose to do so, which was often. Considering that the alternative was panic attacks and a child who was miserable half or more of the term, compromise was favorable. Tristan loved dealing with rational people.

The death-grip of his shirt, two small fistfuls of fabric near the middle of his back, loosened slightly, and he regarded the weary little face tipped up to watch him. "Home, Snowdrop," he murmured, brushing her pale cheek. A soft smile touched his lips at her solemn nod, and he proceeded to make it so.

---------------

The Turkish rug by the hearth in his parlor muffled the light sound of her shoes dropping to the floor, left where she'd slipped her feet from them, though she knew it would bother Tristan before too long. He'd not say anything, or move her, and the line of thought fizzled away as he sank into the leather chair by the fire that was only his, her permission to join him and wrap up in his presence.

His arms were the only really safe place; it had always been that way, or as long as Regan could make memory serve, and she basked in his solid embrace and the heat from the fire. She felt the truth of that analogy, often, though she wasn't very fond of reptiles, and the picture amused her if she let it... that she was a bit like a little lizard, trying to absorb as much of the combined warmth as she could manage, to take with her when she had to go away. It faded too fast, every time, like the sun disappearing behind clouds and leaving her to be chilled by the wind, whatever inside that was meant to provide for such things too empty to manage its task without help.

Tristan let her settle, curling herself against him with the air of a traveler gratefully returning home, and was quiet for a long while, watching the fire burn through most of a log. His arms rested loosely around her, holding but not tightly, comfort but not petting. He waited for the stillness that meant she was thinking, drawing the scattered, changeable threads of her thoughts into a point of focus, and tilted her head back to face him with the leverage of a finger under her chin. "Tell me," he directed gently, reading the conflict in her eyes.

Shifting, Regan met her brother's gaze, finding only his unending patience waiting for whatever she had to say. She drew in a breath, intending to speak, the words carefully coiled into sense behind the first thought, and in, and in, until there was no more space for air and it flooded back out on a soft sob. Not ready. Closing her eyes was useless against the tears trickling past, and she hid her face in Tristan's neck, her fingers bunching into his shirt at the shoulders. I don't understand this and I hate it. I've never had enough mad to hate anything before. I hate this.

The tears were hardly unexpected, though the fact that she'd managed no words to him in the hour they'd been together thus far spoke volumes about her state of mind. Tristan pulled the ribbon from her plait, combing her hair loose with his fingers as he let her cry, the motion quieting her to just tears and the occasional shudder. She'd learned to curb the wracking sobs that made her sick with unhappiness, a long process but one that prevented her emotions from boiling over and taking off with her, leaving her washed out for days. These were poison tears, letting go, pouring off the things that had been eating at her since she'd seen him last. There would be no more visits skipped, not for a while.

Eventually subsiding to silence once more, lulled by the petting of her hair and acceptance of her gloom, Regan relaxed, turning her face to lay over the strong, steady beat of Tristan's heart. "Raining inside again," she whispered, idly counting the measured 'thump' under her ear, her comfort sound. She was tired from crying, suddenly, a gauzy haze of weariness layered by warmth and safety, and knew in a brief spark of insight that her brother was guiding her to sleep intentionally.

"I know," Tristan answered, not breaking the repetition of braid-wavy blonde locks sifting through his fingers. "The outside rain helps that, though," he whispered back, slipping into her metaphor as he'd done since her riddle-speech had surfaced as a tiny thing. "Rest, and let the wind go away, so it stops stealing your words." He felt her absent nod and settled into his chair to watch the fire a while longer, more time for thinking of his own. How, exactly, does one offer protection against that which frightens a person most about herself?


Summary: Tristan collects Regan from school and becomes a handkerchief for a while.