So I'm sorry to my unknown lover
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.

  

Four necrotic toes, one necrotic finger, blood vessel damage in his right foot, and severe hypothermia. The diagnosis was not a death sentence, but neither was it a particularly easy one to cure. His fever had worsened before it had started to wane, so the healers kept him in a sleep around the clock, planning to waking him only in the early morning hours to consume a cup of broth, clean water, and whatever potion they needed him to take. Heavy blankets were piled atop his body, leaving only his head,wet from sweat and the occasional water they cleaned him with. If he'd been awake it would have only multiplied his misery.

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Extending a hand from her blanket cocoon, Fallon reached for the nearby towel that was (presumably) being used to wipe at his brow. She would've thought the fever to be under control by now, but apparently his condition was worse than she thought. The gentle touch at his brow caused him to stir and made Fallon withdraw quickly. "Lachlan?" She whispered. The potions forcing him to sleep couldn't be wearing off, could they? "Lachlan? Are you awake?"

  

His head jerked at the sudden touch, a soft groan involuntary escaping his lips as his eyes flickered open. The lights were off, but it was still too bright. Through squinted eyes he looked up at Fallon, who—somehow—had made it into his room, with no healer and nothing to keep her in bed.

"Fallon," he said through a deep breath, struggling to get his arm out from under the blankets they'd wrapped him in. "What are you doing here?" He felt the stinging pain as his hand brushed against the fabric, but thought nothing of it. He finally got one arm free, only to reveal an unsettling sight: a bandaged stump where his left ring finger ought to be. Expressionless, he stared at the missing appendage only for a moment before mentally stuffing it in the "things to think about later" folder in his brain.

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She released a shaky breath, her eyes closing shut at the sound of his voice. He was alive, and nothing, not any of her conflicting feelings, was better than that. "Keeping you breathing," she finally answered lightly. The stump was easy to ignore as her own right hand looked similar. Though, that it was that finger had her grateful to have moved the ring back to her wrist. There were enough rumors swirling already. "They refused to tell me how you were...I thought the worst."

  

Now that he thought about it, no one had informed him about Fallon's condition, either. It both made no sense and all the sense in the world; considering what they'd gone through it was natural to inquire about the other's condition, but back in British society they were a pair of unmarried people from separate lives who had no rights to know of the other's medical conditions. It was his parents, Quillian, and Tilda who would get to know how he was—not Fallon.

He reached up and brushed a bandaged hand against her cheek, if only to make sure she was really there. He'd had innumerable hallucinations during their arctic adventure, and even one or two before the healers had managed to subdue him. The touch allowed him to relax, to know that they were both alive and well.

(Well being somewhat of an over-exaggeration.)

"You know how they can be with secrecy. Patient privacy and all that," he muttered, unsure of how coherent he sounded; it seemed his own hearing was damaged, every sound muffled by a nonexistent wall. Hopefully it was just a potion side-effect.

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Fallon instinctively leant into his touch, grateful for the physical reassurance of his survival. She had suffered through nearly forty-eight hours of wondering whether or not he was alright, so to have him conscious and touching her was more than sufficient proof. (That he was touching her near where JP had kissed her only a few hours earlier was a conflicting thought she was presently ignoring.)

"They'll have to forgive me for breaking confidentiality," she replied. Although she was tempted to hold his hand tight within her own, she was suddenly too aware of how fast JP had reacted to them being cold still. She wouldn't add to Lachlan's stress by touching him with something cold. Fallon had dealt with that herself and hadn't reacted well.

"Unless...this isn't okay? Do you need me to leave? I just couldn't handle the non-answers anymore..."

  

He wasn't sure what had happened in the last forty-eight hours, that would prompt her to question whether or not she was welcome. British society was stuffy, sure, but surely she didn't think he was prepared to toss her from his room. "If you would have left me back there I'd be dead," he said quietly, appreciatively. "I'm not about to turn you out, if that's what you mean to ask."

His hand fell from her face and immediately found its spot back in his blankets. Never again would he take for granted a normal body temperature and a toasty warm fire. Never again. "What questions do you have?" he responded, shifting in his bed to find a more comfortable spot.

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"I would never have left you there," she replied instantly, her expression shifting to further display her not a chance mindset. Survive or die together, that had been her motto. "Never."

Questions? Fallon wasn't sure what exactly he was expecting her to ask. She was desperate to know his condition, of course, but seeing as he was conscious and verbal it couldn't be that bad. Definitely not bad enough that she would press him for details he'd rather not share. "None, really, aside from the obvious: how bad is it?" The blankets obscured most of what she could see of him. Hopefully, he hadn't lost any limbs.

  

"I know," he said, his brows softening at her assertion. He never believed she would. Whether it was a sense of protectiveness cultivated by auror training or simply her nature, she'd been there through every spike in his fever and every painful broom ride. Wherever they went from now, he would always be there if she needed something—a favor, a drinking buddy, someone to complain to. He owed her that.

"They think I'll live. They've been able to keep the fevers down." Even if they continued to spike throughout the night, but he couldn't tell her that. He would get better, because he still had to make amends. He had no intention of going down in quidditch history as a coward. "Losts a few toes. A finger. I've got pneumonia, too." It was the scariest part of the entire diagnosis, but they were still confident he would be well. Potions did wonders, even if they were not instantaneous fixes.

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"Permanently?" Fallon couldn't imagine if she had lost her finger forever. Having to relearn her basic grip would be a frustrating task, one she wasn't sure she'd have the strength to complete. She could live without her frostbitten toes (her balance was a bit thrown off, but she'd grasp that quickly enough), but not without her fingers. "They were able to grow mine back -" she held up her bandaged right hand. The stumps of three fingers just barely distinguishable. "- I'm sorry they couldn't do the same for you."

Pneumonia was a bit frightening. A diagnosis like that would kill him in the muggle world, and considering he'd been fighting it for days now she was now wondering just how severe it was. "Do they think you will recover from it alright? Will your lungs be alright?"

  

The healers hadn't yet talked about post-recovery procedures, especially when he was still battling other, more serious issues.

"I'll have to talk about it with them," he said, his mind going to quidditch and how he'd have a hard time gripping his bat with a missing finger. Then he realized he wasn't sure whether or not quidditch would be an option to him after recovery, anyways; it was very possible that he would face fines or, at the very least, be fired for the life he'd taken. "They've been giving me these awful potions. I'm not sure what's in half of them, but I don't have it in me to argue right now." They were to help his lungs—something about enlarging them to ensure he could get the maximum amount of air. Or maybe he'd imagined that.

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While she was grateful to not have suffered as terribly as he, Fallon couldn't suppress the wave of guilt that washed over her once again. Lachlan shouldn't have been forced to endure the hell specifically designed for her. Nor should his life have been altered more dramatically. Fallon looked away from him, the guilt amplifying tenfold for each second she met his gaze.

She wanted to tell him the details of the investigation - wanted him to know that the portkey was no longer a mystery - but couldn't place that burden upon him as well. Lachlan's focus needed to be on his recovery, not on her safety. Instead, Fallon placed her bandaged hand over his, the blanket preventing them from actually touching.

"Horrible potions are better than shoe-water," she said lightly. The transfigured pot had had a slightly dirty taste to it, not that either of them had been in a position to complain. "If they're that terrible I'll argue for you. I owe you that at least."

  

Lach managed a weak smile, pulling his other arm out from under the blanket so he could place his hand atop hers. He patted it gently, almost awkwardly; near-death experiences apparently had ways of bringing people close together, but now they weren't standing on death's doorstep (it wasn't so dire, at least).

"The shoe water was nice when it was the only water we had," he said, though now almost all water tasted strange now that he was being fed regular food. He hadn't been able to convince the healers to give him whiskey. They'd said something about it mixing poorly with the treatment. "I'm a man. I'll take my treatment and get it over with. I'd hate to draw out the whole process." The sooner his fever broke and lungs cleared, the better.

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Were she not convinced his diagnosis was worse than he was letting on, Fallon would've asked to lay with him as JP had with her earlier that day. The warmth of another body surpassed any heat provided by blankets or spells; something she learned after spending a week locked in Lachlan's embrace. However, Lachlan was still incredibly sick if they weren't considering anything more than the basoc survival. Cuddling would have to wait.

Besides, it wasn't like he'd even want to now that they were back in Society. In fact, he would probably refuse and lash out at her if she were to ask. (Now that she was thinking of it, JP must've really cared for her considering how easily he climbed into her hospital bed.)

"Yes, I'm aware you're a man." His manly bit had made its presence known once or twice in the cave. Though, when that happened Fallon made a quick excuse to separate and spare them both the humiliation. She was already suffering through enough guilt, embarrassing him wasn't the additional stress she needed."Big and burly, an oaf. You'll be out of here soon enough then, I hope."

  

He smirked, but his mind went elsewhere. Though he couldn't fathom actually dying here, a sense of dread had begun filling him since they'd started shoving potions down his throat. It didn't seem like he was going to get out of here anytime soon—nor did it seem like anything was going to return to normal anytime soon. It could have been the Quidditch World Cup still lingering in the back of his mind, but something felt fundamentally wrong. Being back in Britain had brought him very little relief.

"They'll be letting you go soon, then?" he asked, eyeing her briefly. She could walk without much trouble, obviously, and her missing didgits couldn't have been bothering her that much if she'd willingly left her bed. "Has the auror department contacted you?"

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