The way his thick, brown hair felt clutched too tightly between her fingertips, the annoying fact that she had to stand on her tiptoes, calves straining, her wand, forgotten and thrown to the floor upon the unexpected knocking at her door, the very vibrations thrumming through the air -- all these things were vastly overwhelming. Some of them vaguely unfamiliar, it felt like they'd been apart for so long. Her emotions were all over the place -- Sarah was at work, otherwise she was sure her best friend might've beaten him before the thought had even crossed Reagan's mind.
For the longest time, she'd been unsure of his safety, unsure of his whereabouts (really, she knew he was inside Hogwarts -- with Freya -- just not where), and that was a can of worms she was sure they'd have to open. Soon. Right now, though, she just wanted to look at him. Her frigid hands almost jerked his face back as she descended, flat-footed, back to the floor. "You look tired." The Gryffindor commented, furrow of her strong brow incriminating her characteristic concern. She thumbed over the lines of his face, his eyebrows, his eyelashes, his mouth, his cheekbones. Touching him made things more real. Wasn't as though she hadn't experienced her share of hallucinations in her life.
Of course she'd been worried. Of course she'd assumed the worst once or twice. Of course she'd kept up with the news and of course she'd begun biting her nails again, a habit she'd been trying so hard to break, and of course she'd had too much to drink nearly every night he'd been gone. Of course she'd fucking cried herself to sleep too many times to count; of course she'd crawled into Sarah's bed too upset to fall asleep and wailed until she'd wept out all the moisture in her body and finally fallen asleep. It had been an absolute fucking nightmare -- reminiscent of the war.
She'd lost a few pounds, even, scraped by each and every day during her training. Had mentors ask if "everything was okay" and she'd smiled wryly and answered yes, of course, just a little trying at the moment. None of it had felt like a moment, of course. Stress was different since the war. She handled it differently. Coped differently. (if at all.)
Before Reagan could've curbed it, she felt her eyes stinging with the cheap mascara she was wearing bleeding off, leaving telling trails down her flushed cheeks. Her hands dropped from her boyfriend's face and raked into the crown of her hair, pulling hard to counteract the mental dysfunction with mild pain. Funny how that worked. Funny how physical turmoil was always preferable to that of the emotional variety. "Dammit. Shit. I'm sorry. This should be a happy thing." She gritted out the end of that sentence, too-white teeth grinding toward the back of her mouth. "I'm just glad you're alive. Fuck, Finn."
