Sorry that I can't believe
That anybody ever really
Starts to fall in love with me
After Midnight, September 1st, 1890 — Lachlan MacFusty's Hospital Room
Long after JP's departure (and after several hours on contemplating what exactly had happened with him) Fallon could stand not knowing of Lachlan's condition no longer. She snuck down the ward, peering into each room from her bundled mess of blankets, until she finally spotted the familiar blond locks. He'd been bathed somehow, his hair no longer the frozen matted disgustingness it'd become in the cave. Why exactly he was unconscious, though, Fallon couldn't tell.
She watched him sleep for what seemed like hours, counting his breaths to soothe her nerves as she had in the caves. He had to survive. They hadn't gone through hell — hadn't slain a fucking polar bear — for him to die in a warm hospital bed. The universe couldn't be that cruel, could it? She chuckled softly to herself. Of course it could. Why else would it place two perfectly eligible men in her field of vision within the span of a month? Better yet, why else would the universe then further complicate her thoughts and feelings by providing a near death experience?
Fallon leaned her elbows on the furthest most edge of the bed, her head bowed as though she were in prayer. Lachlan had to survive, for her continuance was reliant upon his. The guilt of murder wasn't one she could cope with, not when the deceased would be someone she'd grown so close to. It was one thing when the person was an innocent victim or bystander. But knowing him made all the difference.
Perhaps Lachlan was right to feel as horrible as he had.