andhiswife | (Reply)

She can feel Regan stiffen, and it probably shouldn't surprise her. There are plenty of ways to shout at someone, and she's done several of them over the past minute or so. It was too presumptuous of her to go for a hug, and she withdraws her arm, curling it around herself, instead.

Her own cheeks are wet. How long has she been crying? Greta wearily swipes at the tears with the heel of her hand, unable to stop them despite her acute awareness of what a miserable sight they both make. If any of the resident children stumble across her like this, they'll be horrified, and then she'll have that mess to clean up, too.

She lets out a low, frustrated groan -- an indulgence she wouldn't allow herself in other company -- and picks up her phone again. But after typing a few letters, she lets it drop back into her lap. It doesn't seem right to communicate this in the manner most convenient for her.

Her fingers curl absently as she dredges her ASL vocabulary back up from the depths, and then she signs, a little stiffly, "I shouldn't have said that." She looks at Regan, still shivering and miserable, and so desperately underdressed that really, it's a miracle she made it here in one piece. It would have been so easy to get turned around, with the usual landmarks buried under drifts. It would have been so easy to get lost in the dark, or stuck, and to freeze to death.

Greta could have lost both of them, and she wouldn't even have known.

Part of her is still angry, but her eyes fill with fresh tears as she adds, with all sincerity, "I'm glad you're okay."