Reagan & Luke | Friday Evening | Quarantine
Well she was talking to him, at least. That was something. Reagan had never been good at vulnerability for as long as he'd known her. He was convinced that she'd even been a little furious with him for getting her down from that mimosa tree all those years ago. She was independent even back then, when they were so young, and frustrating as it sometimes was, he'd always admired it about her, even if it was quality that bit her in the ass at times like these, when there really was no option but to let other people take care of her.
"I lost it for a little while," he said, though the words sounded more matter-of-fact than like an admission. Things just got lost, sometimes. "But I have it again." He extended it to her a little more, his hand moving slowly. "That's why I'm givin' it, silly," he said, managing a warm tone despite everything. "So your luck gets better."
It was true that he had a lot of nicknames for her, and even though he was pretty sure the only reason she wasn't automatically arguing with Thistledown was because she was sick, but he filed it away under Names she doesn't hate anyway. "Couple of hours," he said hoarsely. "Mostly sleeping. Folks at Antoine's got us all up here almost as soon as the announcement went up." He blinked a couple of times, trying to clear his double vision, but then gave up. "Real nice of the Rosiers to let us up here again. They helped us out during a real bad ice storm last season."