Viola & Reagan & Lachlan | Late Saturday Morning | Quarantine
So they'd known each other for some time, then. That should have been obvious, really, given how Reagan had clearly endured quite a bit of discomfort to make it to his bed in the first place. No wonder it had been awkward for her, dancing with her ex-fiancee at the festival, when her new partner was so obviously available to witness it. She still wasn't totally sure how to track the nuances of Aurellian relationships, but crawling into someone else's sickbed was a clear indicator of closeness even (or perhaps especially) by Clovennian standards, and Viola found herself wishing that she'd known before that the two of them were together, though she wouldn't have been able to articulate precisely why.
Not that any of that was relevant to either of them as her patients, nor was the way that Reagan looked at jacket so judgmentally, though Viola's spine did stiffen. She watched carefully as the other woman struggled to sit up, taking by her slowness that she was, in fact, just determined and not recovering more quickly than the others. "Much as I admire your stamina," she said, drawing a little closer to the bed, "You really should be in your own bed, Reagan. Save your strength for the recovery, and then you'll both be much happier."