rp for mcgill_pride
House wasn’t sure how many days had passed since he’d last seen Wilson. Days? Weeks? He had no way of measuring time in this place; a day could seem like a week, a week like a day, a few days like a month, a month like a week… All he knew for certain was the bar had been the last place he saw Wilson. House had walked out, utterly disturbed by how unglued Wilson was, yet too caught up in himself to really be able to see outside his own issues.
And while he remained tangled up in his issues with Cuddy, the days - or weeks, or who the hell really knew how long - passed by without hearing another peep from Wilson. He didn’t know what prompted the sudden thought about Wilson as he lay sprawled in his bed with his head propped up on pillows as he blankly watched a Gene Wilder-Richard Pryor movie - maybe it was the scene in the movie of Richard Pryor waving a bottle of scotch around drunkenly. But as he lay there, he grew less focused on the movie and more focused on the realisation that he had no idea what had happened to Wilson, if he was okay, if he was still sober.
House was suddenly off his bed, snatching at his shirt lying discarded on the floor. He tugged it on and reached for his cane, and after he switched off the TV with the remote he headed for the door. He shut the door firmly behind him, throwing a glance at Cuddy’s door, then down either end of the corridor as he made his way to Wilson’s door.
Once he was standing there, he went to knock - and then halted. What was he going to see? What state was he expecting Wilson to be in? House had no idea. All he could see in his head was the image of Wilson slouched over the bar, dependant on glasses of scotch like an alcoholic. He hesitated for one more moment and then rapped loudly on the door with the handle of his cane. He waited, listening closely for any movement inside before he rapped on the door again, in slower, more punctuated knocks.
And while he remained tangled up in his issues with Cuddy, the days - or weeks, or who the hell really knew how long - passed by without hearing another peep from Wilson. He didn’t know what prompted the sudden thought about Wilson as he lay sprawled in his bed with his head propped up on pillows as he blankly watched a Gene Wilder-Richard Pryor movie - maybe it was the scene in the movie of Richard Pryor waving a bottle of scotch around drunkenly. But as he lay there, he grew less focused on the movie and more focused on the realisation that he had no idea what had happened to Wilson, if he was okay, if he was still sober.
House was suddenly off his bed, snatching at his shirt lying discarded on the floor. He tugged it on and reached for his cane, and after he switched off the TV with the remote he headed for the door. He shut the door firmly behind him, throwing a glance at Cuddy’s door, then down either end of the corridor as he made his way to Wilson’s door.
Once he was standing there, he went to knock - and then halted. What was he going to see? What state was he expecting Wilson to be in? House had no idea. All he could see in his head was the image of Wilson slouched over the bar, dependant on glasses of scotch like an alcoholic. He hesitated for one more moment and then rapped loudly on the door with the handle of his cane. He waited, listening closely for any movement inside before he rapped on the door again, in slower, more punctuated knocks.