Reagan & Lachlan | Late Saturday Morning | Quarantine
Getting his own private room in the makeshift infirmary, when space was rapidly becoming scarce, had been a surprise. Lachlan had been too unwell by that point to convey that surprise or his thanks, and was Most Certainly Not comforted by that brief, light squeeze the doctor gave his hand. Still, he had settled into the bed and fallen into a fitful, much-needed sleep, when he otherwise might have stubbornly risen to his feet to seek out Morrigan.
When he had awoken to find the crown of flowers resting on the little table beside his bed, Lachlan had at first thought that he was still dreaming. Petals of lilac, lavender and violet swam in and out of focus for a few moments, until he had scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and confirmed that the crown was in fact not a figment of his imagination. At first, all he had felt was a kind of inexplicable confusion whenever he looked their way, not quite knowing what to make of the fact that they had not been disposed of. But after begrudgingly accepting water and broth from the volunteer nurses, Lachlan felt ever so slightly restored, and had found he could take comfort from the flowers instead. The petals were browning around the edges now, curling in on themselves, but the transience of their beauty served as a reminder that his illness would pass.
At least it had done, until the next morning when Fiona had written to him and revealed that they weren’t suffering from an illness, but from Fade withdrawal. A black fury had overtaken him then, poisoning his mood as thoroughly as the gods-damned Fade poisoned his body, to the point where he vomited back up the watery broth that had been his breakfast. From that point onward, he had refused so much as a sip of water, but at least still had the presence of mind to destroy Fiona’s message. Lacking a candle to set fire to the journal page, Lachlan had torn it into tiny pieces, dumping the jagged confetti into his bucket of vomit to ensure no one else would read that dangerous new information.
Lachlan did not doubt Fiona’s news for a second, knowing that she would not make such a pronouncement without first being absolutely sure it was true. Throwing around falsehoods was dangerous, but the truth ended up being even more so.
Frustration drove Lachlan to reach out to the flower crown beside him, it was the one bright spot in a room that was otherwise entirely unnatural. He should have let it be, but knowing that he would soon be bound once more was enough to drive him to bring the flowers back to life, so that the crown looked as fresh as the day it had been made. There was nothing to be done for the petals that had already fallen from it to litter the tabletop like potpourri, but they provided a fitting contrast to what they had once been, when the crown was placed down once more.
Using his Gift had been a mistake, but Lachlan did not care. His body rebelled against the use of it, as if craving the drug that would dampen his abilities, which only served to deteriorate his mood as his physical condition worsened too. Lachlan closed his eyes against the pain, trying to ignore the bone-deep aching in his joints as cramps radiated out from his gut, in favour of the seething thoughts that whirled through his mind.
Time was hard to measure in such a state, so Lachlan could not say how long he remained that way. He was only jolted from his thoughts when he felt the mattress give way down by his feet, and his eyes flew open to see Reagan sitting there, looking worse than he had ever seen her. “You didn’t have to get all dressed up just to come see me,” he replied hoarsely, his throat ragged from thirst and being sick as he reluctantly shifted to make room for her.