It had been two days since Regan’s victorious return to Nevermere. While victory had been sweet, the luster of it was wearing off when returning to the day-to-day. She’d been given some time for herself, which was hypothetically a blessing but was turning out to be something more of a curse. @warren was in Cambria, as was @berengar. Othello Allemeade was spending some well-earned quality time with his family and that girl he was…with. Involved with in some capacity.

So, Regan decided it was time for some new clothes. Regan usually would have been mortified to care about such things, but the ball had changed her. The way Cassian smiled at her, all tied up in her new gown, was permanently etched in her memory. Regan, much to her embarrassment, had discovered she liked looking pretty—or at least presentable. The scars on her face presented a challenge, but Regan would have to make do.

Regan, wearing a tunic and boots, was stalking down the street, approaching the shop she’d seen high-faluten nobles coming in and out of. All of it would probably be too expensive, but Regan really had no metric on what these kinds of things cost. Regan rounded the corner, looking for the shop when she came face to face with—

Grant.

Regan was stunned for a moment, staring in disbelief.

Then, she pulled back her hand and slapped Grant Delaney firmly across the face with an audible smack.

Grant had not expected to see a familiar face. Or, not one he was actually familiar with. Since he apparently had been given an exhaustive list of all ten thousand even slightly moderately eligible noblewomen in Nevermere, courtesy of @norah, there was always a good change he'd meet someone who he was theoretically supposed to know.

So surprised was Grant, in fact, that he had time to grin at Regan's face even if it looked like someone had taken a fire grate to it and then his head whipped to the side, a bone or two in his neck audibly popping.

That one had some mustard on it.

Grant slowly put his head back in resting position, making a few faces as he collected his senses and tried to remember when he was and also come up with a witty riposte for his partner's unjust assault.

"Ow?"

Regan was backflipping through a wide array of powerful and confusing emotions as she looked up at the hulking tower that was Grant Delaney. She wanted to hug him, but more immediately wanted to smack him again just for the catharsis of it. Still parked in the entryway, with a few passersby looking on with raised eyebrows, Regan’s face was turning an unnatural shade of red.

“You’re back,” Regan said sarcastically, “Nice of you to get in touch.”

Grant's braincells rattled around, their settling audible as he regarded Regan.

A young Grant would have absolutely responded by slapping back, but then again he got that habit smacked out of him as a toddler, given his litany of sisters.

So, instead, he rubbed his cheek. "You're back!" he said. "You weren't even in the city," he said, dropping his hand and pausing. "What happened to your face?" he asked, concerned. His was a little red but mostly in a handprint shape that was surely going to get better and not worse.

“What happened to your face?”

Regan just stared at him for a moment. The ball had been…how many weeks ago? Had Grant really been that far detached from military life that he didn’t know just what the cost had been? While she usually found Grant’s boyish concern endearing, at present she found it infuriating.

“Bex Brekker shifted a werewolf at the military ball, or maybe you didn’t hear,” Regan said snippily, “So this is what I look like now. Aren't I pretty?” She reached up to brush back her hair, letting a lock come unseated from behind her ear so that her scar was partially obscured by its dark curtain.

Grant made a face. A werewolf? At the military ball? First it was just a series of deaths and now it was his best friend getting mauled by a werewolf.

"No, I didn't hear," said Grant, skipping over why he was angry about that for another whole reason. "Fucking hell, are you okay?"

Come to think of it she looked pretty okay for having been attacked by a werewolf. She still had her face on, as a matter of fact.

“I’m fine,” Regan responded in the most juvenile-sounding way possible. No, she wasn’t fine, but at present that had very little to do with her face and more to do with the mixed emotions about Grant’s sudden return. She crossed her arms, sour-faced.

“So, you gonna explain yourself or what?”

Fine? Yeah okay, Grant thought, but he bit his tongue as Regan made that face that she usually made when she wasn't going to fucking talk to him about something.

See usually it was something banal like 'I had to piss in the woods of course I'm fine' or whatever but clearly now was... a little more serious.

"Uh," said Grant, reaching out and brushing the lone lock of hair from her face despite all the warning klaxons that told him not to. How did one broach this subject?

Since it was Grant, there was only one solution, should his arm still be attached.

"I got abducted by my mother, kind of," he said, giving what was assuredly not a happy smile.

Damn him. Damn him and all of his Delaney kind. That’s the mental line Regan tried to hold to, anyway, when Grant reached up and brushed a lock of hair from her face. Instead of holding fire, however, Regan’s eyes went soft like a lost puppy in the rain. She was quiet for a moment. A long moment, trying to weigh her desire for justice and longing for her ‘friend’.

Eventually, the latter won out.

“Wanna talk about it?” Regan’s voice was a begrudgingly needy mumble that was accompanied by a toe digging into the cobblestones below.

"I mean," said Grant, "fuckin' no, but I can if you really want to hear?" he answered, his hand lingering on Regan's face for a moment or two longer than was strictly necessary. He dropped his arms and huffed.

"I'll talk about it if you want," he challenged--mostly out of habit--this was basically how he ever got her to talk about anything. It only made sense he turned it on himself, right?

Regan felt a twist in her chest as his hand lingered. She missed him, yes, but it wasn’t until now that she realized how much she missed the idea of them. When it had been a simpler time, just the two of them against the world. But Regan saw a flicker of it, and the flicker was enough.

“Alright then,” Regan tugged his arm to set him in the direction of the pub, “Can’t guarantee I want to hear, but I also don’t want you running off again so…”

"I didn't run off," huffed Grant in protest, "but yeah okay," he said, heading along with her.

He groaned a little, looking at her as she tugged him along, trying to think of a way to broach the gap between them. "You are okay, right?" he asked; worried.

Regan was quiet for a moment. The second time the question was harder to avoid, now that she wasn’t overcome with ire (though it unmistakably still burned). She looked at her feet as they trod along, her arm hesitantly linking through Grant’s.

“I’m not sure. I will be, I think. But for now, I’m not sure.”