Reagan & Lachlan | Saturday Morning | Quarantine
What Reagan had experienced during the night could not be described as sleep so much as fragile unconsciousness. She'd managed a few sips of broth here and there (the taste had been a shock to her tastebuds, which by then had become well accustomed to the taste of bile and sick), and despite the fact that she hadn't been able to hold most of it down for very long it did seem to help replenish a small portion of her strength. Her joints still ached, but by the time she awoke she was at least able to drag herself up into a seated position, laborious though her movements still were.
She had had the good sense to bring her journal with her before Emmy had helped her down and onto her cart, and so after asking a passing volunteer for a writing instrument she set about scribing a quick note to her mother, mostly to assure the easily-frazzled woman that she was still alive. The pen felt heavy, and her focus strangely scattered... two Aurellian women, healthy and tending to someone nearby, were speaking in hushed tones, and she could not help but overhear bits of their muted conversation.
Difficult man.
Brought in by Ms. Rosier.
Garden.
Worsening.
Brow creasing, it, like most things, took her a moment longer than it normally would have for her to piece together these scraps to form a semi-logical conclusion about who they might be talking about. Concern settled like lead in her empty stomach; could he be there, too? Setting her journal carefully aside, Reagan let her glossy regard carefully scan her section of the servant's quarters, sniffing in some annoyance when she realized she had limited view of the room from where she was. Moving felt like a terrible and unappealing idea, and she knew she'd likely be sent right back to bed if she was caught sneaking about.
But if Lachlan was there...
She waited until the two woman had moved down the line of sick beds before she shoved the blankets aside, stifling a gasp as her very bones seemed to pulse with radiating discomfort with the motion. Slowly, laboriously she dragged herself to her feet, using the bed post to steady herself when she swayed. Gripping it in one tight fist, she carefully reached forward with the other to grip the foot of Luke's bed to pull herself forward, pausing mid-way to absently pull his blanket up over his shoulder where it'd slipped down.
It was in this way that she began to traverse the room, bed post to bed post, forcing herself to resist the urge to stop and sit on other patient's feet when she was feeling particularly knackered. Perhaps it was part deliriousness. Perhaps she was spurred by the concern her eavesdropping had pierced into her heart. Perhaps she needed the comfort of knowing he was nearby. Either way, her determination was such that she had crossed nearly the entire wing before she finally found him, his shock of raven hair against the pillow giving him away.
Relief and surprise filtered through her in equal measures (Gods, he looked awful, though she supposed she could not be one to talk), but her exhaustion took precedence. She plopped unceremoniously onto the edge of his bed near his leg, visibly winded and trembling lightly from the exertion. It did not seem to matter to her much whether he was sleeping or not, because if she did not sit down she was likely to crash right down to the floor. "Lach. Move over," she whispered hoarsely.