She levers herself up hastily.  The gesture is a fumbling one as hands and feet tangle in limp appendages.

She forces herself into a corner.  Sits and watches.

He doesn't move.

She doesn't move.

She remains immobile as tears fall, trailing mascara.  The liquid warmth reminds her.  She...can't...do...this...

She shifts, blinks the tears away. 

She gnaws absentmindedly on nail.  Something she hasn't done since she was five.

He doesn't move.

She draws her knees into her chest.  Rocks.

She stops, considering. 

No more crying.  Now what?

Without realizing it, she's begun humming to herself.  It used to be "their" song.  Or the song she'd sing to him.  He liked it when she sang.  Abruptly, the humming stops.

She inhales deeply, preparing.  The effort will be gargantuan. 

She crawls over to him. 

His skin is hot, but not hot in the way she'd anticipated.  He seems utterly…changed.  He is, she determines, running a fever.  She rises, balancing uneasily on stress and alcohol weakened legs.

She just needs to make it to the bathroom.

Lana, you can do this.  You are NOT weak.  You can't afford to…

She's shaking, but she's in the bathroom before she realizes it.  Staring into the medicine cabinet.  It's virtually empty – you don't take care when you don't care.  Percodan, Valium, rubbing alcohol, Tylenol, Band-Aids.

She grabs the Tylenol, fills a basin with lukewarm water.  She resists the temptation to add lavender from the small bottle she kicks accidentally beneath the sink.

She tosses the lavender into the trash.

She returns to the living room and proceeds to bathe him, with a lover's delicate touch.  Long lashes flutter, revealing drowsy grape green eyes.