Reagan & Luke | Friday Evening | Quarantine
Even in such a state Reagan was still capable of fixing him with a look when he called her silly. She was not the one toting around a lucky rock, it seemed to say. Luke's capacity for being optimistic at the worst of times was something that had always confounded her. Other people always seemed to find it endearing. To her, though, it always seemed more a deliberate and unrealistic refusal to acknowledge the bad, a child-like mechanism that lent further support to her theory that Luke was incapable (or perhaps simply in denial) of truly feeling any emotion that couldn't be rectified with a hug or, in this case, a gleaming tiger's eye. She wanted to scold him, to tell him that things didn't get better just because you press a stone to your palm, that work and struggle were the only way to truly bring about such change, but she hadn't the strength to start that conversation with him. Especially not when she couldn't readily get up and walk away from him afterwards.
"No," she croaked instead, "I'm alright. It's doing you more good than it would me." That at least was not untrue.
She made a noncommittal sound at his mention of Antoine's, but had to nod in agreement at the assessment about the Rosiers. She'd met the lady Rosier only briefly (and very drunkenly) at the Turning festival, but otherwise only knew of them from what her mother had told her. "My mother wrote to me about that," she admitted. "She said you turned it into a party." She paused and grimaced as her stomach was seized by another cramp.