Reagan & Luke | Friday Evening | Quarantine
Luke had been among the first group of people to accept aid from Rosier when the doctor offered it, accepting the help of the few healthy bedmate at Antoine's to get him squared away and settled. It had been just his luck that they'd run out of beds in the side rooms, but Luke still managed to remain relatively cheerful in his cot near the fireplace.
As cheerful as a pale, dehydrated invalid incapable of keeping food in his stomach could be, anyway. He'd kept his eyes mostly closed since he'd arrived and all but collapsed onto his cot, the mere fact of the light giving him a dull headache. Or maybe that was the dehydration. It was hard to say, really. His usually bouncy curls were pasted down against his forehead, his brows knitted together in discomfort. One fist, half-hidden under the sheets, held something small and shiny.
He was drifting in and out of sleep when some soft nearby chatter and movement alerted him to the presence of another patient. He kept his eyes closed, squeezing them shut a little tighter against the light and noise until the activity had quieted. He might've kept them that way, if it hadn't been for that familiar groan.
His heart sped up a little, and, with great effort, he rolled over and blinked open his eyes, squinting at Reagan through his headache. She was blurry (nearly everything had been, for the last couple of hours) but it was definitely her. He managed a weak smile. "Hey Thistledown," he rasped. "Sorry you got it too." He drew his hand from out beneath the sheet, opening his fingers slowly to reveal a small, smooth tiger's eye he'd been carrying around in a little pouch since he'd found it when he was twelve. "Want my lucky rock? I think it's helping."