At least Wilson was talking to him, if in an incredibly awkward way. It was an improvement, certainly. But the note Wilson had sent sounded like he wanted to talk about something important - no having to guess what that was. Add that to the hesitant way Wilson was acting, and... yeah, House knew the outcome of this. It was going to be Goodbye House, Hello Again Precious Heterosexuality.
"It's called the Draught of Living Death. Neat name, huh?" The almost-perfect casual front was still firmly in place. "It's meant to make someone sleep for a really, really long time." House didn't make it clear as to whether he was just trying to see if he could make it for shits and giggles, or if he actually had the intention of using it. Knowing his past record for doing insane things when he was depressed, it wouldn't be unusual. Though he could have easily acquired drugs and gone back to using Vicodin or morphine, spending his time in a euphoric haze that lifted away his problems - curiously, he wasn't. There was something stopping him.
So, distraction it was. Which isn't to say he was doing it right. Hell, the Draught of Living Death was a sixth-year-class potion, according to the curriculum, and House had never even attempted to make the simplest, first-year kind. He looked up Wilson briefly before picking up the dagger again, pressing the flat of it against the sopophorous beans. The emotions weighing his stomach down like a lead balloon (good lord, they actually were emotions) didn't exactly help with his accuracy and precision in the whole task.
no subject
"It's called the Draught of Living Death. Neat name, huh?" The almost-perfect casual front was still firmly in place. "It's meant to make someone sleep for a really, really long time." House didn't make it clear as to whether he was just trying to see if he could make it for shits and giggles, or if he actually had the intention of using it. Knowing his past record for doing insane things when he was depressed, it wouldn't be unusual. Though he could have easily acquired drugs and gone back to using Vicodin or morphine, spending his time in a euphoric haze that lifted away his problems - curiously, he wasn't. There was something stopping him.
So, distraction it was. Which isn't to say he was doing it right. Hell, the Draught of Living Death was a sixth-year-class potion, according to the curriculum, and House had never even attempted to make the simplest, first-year kind. He looked up Wilson briefly before picking up the dagger again, pressing the flat of it against the sopophorous beans. The emotions weighing his stomach down like a lead balloon (good lord, they actually were emotions) didn't exactly help with his accuracy and precision in the whole task.