Reagan & Lachlan | Late Saturday Morning | Quarantine
Lachlan saw the way Reagan’s throat worked to swallow, the effort involved clear to him even through his half-lidded eyes. He wanted to drawl a warning that she had best not vomit on him, but the worded snared in his throat and he had to settle for a vague wave at the bucket beside his bed. Given what he had so recently learned about the true nature of his condition, it was no surprise to discover that Reagan had succumbed to supposed illness too. Her presence at his side was no comfort though, and only served as proof of what Fiona had revealed, deepening the furrow at his brow even further.
“They did not bring me here,” Lachlan muttered, though the resentment in his tone could easily have been misconstrued as being directed at the volunteers, rather than the damned Cloves responsible for Fade. “I have been here since yesterday,” he eventually supplied, though he could not name the exact time when the whole day had been one hazy blur of nauseous discomfort.
“How did you get here?” By this point, Lachlan couldn’t even fix Reagan with a piercing stare, and he closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. She would answer regardless though, because what else could they do now but suffer in each others’ company?