(no subject)
House looked like death... not really warmed over, more like slightly thawed. His leg was killing him (What, a respite for the holidays and now it was payback time? Great, thanks.), he was wearing the same wrinkled clothes he'd been wearing yesterday since he hadn't felt like walking back to the treehouse in the dark after the council meeting (at which he'd been pretty much silent the whole time), and he'd slept maybe, what, two, three hours, crashed on a bed in the clinic in an apparently awkward position since his neck had a crick in it too.
Exhausted as he was, he didn't really think he could sleep now even if he wanted to, so was in the kitchen nursing a cup of black black black coffee and trying to think, now if I were Wilson, where would I hide the Vicodin?
But that just made him feel crappier so he rubbed at bloodshot eyes and took another sip, making a face. He should probably eat something, but coffee was infinitely more appealing. For some reason he really didn't want to go back to the treehouse.
Exhausted as he was, he didn't really think he could sleep now even if he wanted to, so was in the kitchen nursing a cup of black black black coffee and trying to think, now if I were Wilson, where would I hide the Vicodin?
But that just made him feel crappier so he rubbed at bloodshot eyes and took another sip, making a face. He should probably eat something, but coffee was infinitely more appealing. For some reason he really didn't want to go back to the treehouse.