(In Progress, Closed)
WHO: House and Daisya Barry
WHAT: Security measures, of a sort.
WHERE: House's house.
WHEN: Mid-day; follows this and this
House closed his journal, set it on the table, and rubbed his forehead, silently cursing at himself. Damn it, this shouldn't be getting to him this much! He was fine, or at least he would be: some bruises and aches and a cracked rib. What could have happened-it could have been worse. A lot worse.
And maybe that was what was worst.
He felt like he'd hardly slept at all. He had in fact, but it was a kind of collapse from exhaustion, a cycling closer to unconsciousness than actual sleep, filled with dreams he couldn't remember, and he woke up feeling unsettled, tense, restless, with the scene from the night before stuck on repeat in his head.
Shit, he hated to admit it, but he was shaken. Only rationally he knew that he shouldn't be. He was blowing things out of proportion, imagining himself to be the potential target of every information-seeking maniac in the city. But then that strange guy had written to him in the journals today expecting-with the same tone of entitlement that had marked Kaoru and Susumu's intrusion-for House to be his own personal Information Central, and peppering the whole exchange with lexical intimidation tactics that mirrored the ones which had saturated Susumu's body language the night before: it would be in his "best interest" to start talking; if he just "behaved" then no one would get hurt.
And then the guy had finished with that comment about dropping by for coffee, and yeah, all right, House was freaked.
He didn't want to admit it, and he certainly wasn't going to go around advertising what had happened, but damn, he needed…
The problem was, he didn't even know what he needed exactly. But at the moment, nailing the upstairs windows shut looked like a damn good place to start.
WHAT: Security measures, of a sort.
WHERE: House's house.
WHEN: Mid-day; follows this and this
House closed his journal, set it on the table, and rubbed his forehead, silently cursing at himself. Damn it, this shouldn't be getting to him this much! He was fine, or at least he would be: some bruises and aches and a cracked rib. What could have happened-it could have been worse. A lot worse.
And maybe that was what was worst.
He felt like he'd hardly slept at all. He had in fact, but it was a kind of collapse from exhaustion, a cycling closer to unconsciousness than actual sleep, filled with dreams he couldn't remember, and he woke up feeling unsettled, tense, restless, with the scene from the night before stuck on repeat in his head.
Shit, he hated to admit it, but he was shaken. Only rationally he knew that he shouldn't be. He was blowing things out of proportion, imagining himself to be the potential target of every information-seeking maniac in the city. But then that strange guy had written to him in the journals today expecting-with the same tone of entitlement that had marked Kaoru and Susumu's intrusion-for House to be his own personal Information Central, and peppering the whole exchange with lexical intimidation tactics that mirrored the ones which had saturated Susumu's body language the night before: it would be in his "best interest" to start talking; if he just "behaved" then no one would get hurt.
And then the guy had finished with that comment about dropping by for coffee, and yeah, all right, House was freaked.
He didn't want to admit it, and he certainly wasn't going to go around advertising what had happened, but damn, he needed…
The problem was, he didn't even know what he needed exactly. But at the moment, nailing the upstairs windows shut looked like a damn good place to start.