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lazy I still haven't forgiven canon.
House shuns him and that brings Wilson pain and that therefore brings me pain and there is no happy to be brought or understood. Who the hell hangs out with their fellows instead of their best friend? I think a part of me shall always, always hate this episode. Even if it leads to House/Wilson shoving Wilson/House up against a wall andfucking fucking fuc -- oh fine -- fucking him senseless. There will still be that wee bit of hate for making me watch Wilson practically beg for pizza. Hrmph.
House shuns him and that brings Wilson pain and that therefore brings me pain and there is no happy to be brought or understood. Who the hell hangs out with their fellows instead of their best friend? I think a part of me shall always, always hate this episode. Even if it leads to House/Wilson shoving Wilson/House up against a wall and
In other news: I wrote fic. *g*
Title: Sedated
Author: earlwyn
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Words: 3,410
Spoilers: One general S3 spoiler about Wilson’s living arrangements.
Summary: Somebody has to get Wilson out of his current living situation. House devises a plan. It’s not, uh, exactly ethical. Interesting consequences result.
Notes: Medicine is researched as far as a quick search with Google can provide. Any mistakes are therefore unintentional and completely my own. Many, many, many thanks to sweety167 for the marvelous beta and song reference.
Also, a warning: fluff like this will rot your teeth. Read with a toothbrush. *g*
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House bangs on the hotel room door at one thirty in the morning until Wilson finally opens it, bleary-eyed and a bit put out at being woken in such a way. Without an invitation inside and nary a care for proper guest etiquette, House barges in and throws a suitcase on the bed.
“Pack,” he says in a way that makes it known that this isn’t going to be a dialogue, and then storms back out to wait for Wilson’s compliance in the hallway.
Wilson stands in the middle of the room, a bit shell-shocked and still mostly asleep, before he moves to fill the bag with a change of clothes and his toothbrush. He must really be tired, he dreamily rationalizes, because he doesn’t think to question House’s command until it’s too late and he’s walking with him to the elevators. The suitcase bangs lopsidedly against his calf with every other step.
“Can I ask where we’re going?” he inquires, once they are in the elevator. He slumps wearily against the wall of the cab as House pushes the button for the ground floor.
The query doesn’t even earn him a sidelong glance.
“No,” House tersely replies and again Wilson finds himself too drained to question.
When they reach the lobby, House clamps a hand around Wilson’s elbow and directs him towards the front door. Wilson takes the hint without verbal acknowledgement, stifling back a yawn and nearly falling asleep against House’s shoulder as they walk side by side out to the parking lot, where House tugs him randomly to the right.
The next thing Wilson knows he is being lightly shoved into the passenger seat of a car—House’s car—and his suitcase has been thrown haphazardly into the back seat. Vaguely he is aware of House dropping into the driver seat.
Still operating automatically instead of consciously, he remarks groggily, “You didn’t bring the bike.”
It is a useless observation, the kind House hates, but it’s the only one Wilson feels awake enough to make at the moment. He presses his head to the cold glass of the window and closes his eyes against the bright onslaught of streetlights. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so worn out, but he is.
Next to him House just snorts derisively as he revs the engine. “You always told me it was dangerous to mix motorcycles and chemicals,” he says and Wilson feels the car pick up speed.
The obscure comment chips away a bit at Wilson’s somnambulant nature and he opens one eye to peer at House’s fuzzy profile. House doesn’t seem intoxicated, but then Wilson is in no condition to judge. He can barely keep his eyes open.
“And I got a thank you note from the DMV for it,” Wilson retorts, his voice thick with sleep but retaining some of its usual wry delivery. He blinks a bit blearily, trying to focus more on House. It doesn’t seem to work. “Really, man. Should you be driving?”
“Can’t very well trust you to drive, Rip Van Winkle,” House bites back. But then he turns his head slightly, glances at his passenger and gives what Wilson presumes is supposed to be a reassuring kind of smile.
Wilson decides that it doesn’t matter at this point; whatever inspired House to come retrieve him at the early morning hour, and therefore probably means that he shouldn’t be in charge of a two thousand pound vehicle, isn’t relevant anymore. House is already driving, and what’s more pertinent, he’s right. Wilson is too sleepy, quite inexplicably exhausted, to even pay attention to where they are going, let alone try to form the sort of reaction speed needed to pilot a car.
He lets his head fall once more against the window and, closing his eyes, listens to the subtle sounds of wheels over pavement as they drive.
He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knows is House ripping open the door with the loud, gruff order.
“Up and at ‘em, Jimmy.”
Wilson starts at the sudden loss of his headrest and almost falls out of the car, except that House has his body readily stationed to catch him. He finds himself grasping frantically at the denim material of what turns out to be House’s hips in order to right himself and keep his fatigued body in the seat.
“Eggs,” he says, jumping onto a random train of thought at its last station and then promptly forgetting what he was trying to say originally. It seems his brain can’t think of the right word for thanks or go away, House or whatever it is that he wants to say.
He’s too out of it to catch the slight slip.
Rubbing a hand over his hair, further adding to his mussed bed head, and then letting it fall down to rest on the back of his neck, he tries to find the energy to move. He murmurs something again, a garbled jumble of vowels and consonants that make no sense even to him, and then drops his hand to his lap as he musters the willpower to wake up a second time.
It takes him a few moments to open his eyes, but when he does, he finds that House is staring at him with an unguarded look on his face. The expression is not a normal one, or more accurately, a usual one, for House. It’s something like amusement, but with a softer quality to it. Appreciation or maybe affection belies it, making it completely different from the deprecating humor House typically expressed towards him. Wilson is sure he’s never seen House look at him like that before.
Except that he has, he knows – if his sleep-addled mind remembered the times after a few too many beers or a particularly cutting joke he made at someone else’s expense - House would look at him the same way then. Yet Wilson never really paid attention to it, either forgetting it in the morning as the hangover stole his concentration, or dismissing it in favor of continuing an earlier conversation.
Drunk off sleep-deprivation as he is now, he finds the look a little bit disconcerting and maybe a little endearing as well. He opens his mouth to say this, or say something at least, and it might just be another request for breakfast foods, but House cuts him off.
“Let’s go,” House says and nudges the suitcase into Wilson’s vision with his cane. It’s then that Wilson realizes that they are at House’s apartment and he gracelessly extracts himself from the vehicle, leaving House to close the door. He grabs his suitcase and stumbles up the steps to the front door.
House follows, staying silent as he unlocks the door and ushers both of them inside. No lights are on and House doesn’t seem to intend to change this fact, so Wilson is made to blindly navigate his way to the couch. His suitcase has somehow left his grip but he doesn’t concern himself about it as flops belly first onto the cool cushions of the furniture.
With his knees buckled awkwardly against the arm and his hand drags against the floor because there is no place to rest it on the cushion along with his body. Wilson suddenly remembers that House’s couch is not that great. In fact the bed at the hotel is better, more comfortable.
Wilson tries to says so, words muffled by the upholstery. “I don’t want to sleep on your couch,” he attempts to explain but somehow the mention of roomy hotel beds and old pee stains become lost in the passage from brain to mouth.
“So don’t,” he hears House say somewhere near the door and it seems odd that the man hasn’t moved yet. But then he does, and Wilson can hear the step-thump of House moving down the hallway. The sound of running water means he went into the bathroom, probably to get ready for bed.
Wilson doesn’t understand House’s oddly cryptic comment. And though the logical part of his brain tells him not to question it, to simply readjust himself on the couch secure in the knowledge that they can talk about dubious motivations and control freaks for friends in the morning, he finds he is too groggy to listen.
“But I’m tired,” he says, and it’s close to a whine. He rubs his face into the cushion. He just wants this problem resolved so he doesn’t have to deal with it anymore and can finally sleep. “And I want a bed,” he pleads, a little desperately, hoping that by saying it aloud he will be magically transported back to the scratchy sheets and firm mattress of the hotel.
There is no answer for a while. Wilson wonders if House didn’t hear him, or possibly that he somehow fell asleep during House’s reply, but then the bathroom door opens and he can hear House’s uneven gait traipsing across the floor.
“Fine, then,” House accedes, and Wilson isn’t sure what House is agreeing to, “Sleep in a bed.”
Wilson lifts his head, feeling his hair sticking up at odd angles from being mussed and his jaw slack in confusion. He stares up at House, uncomprehending, and even in the dim light he can see House is standing at the threshold of his bedroom, dressed in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. He’s not sure what House is suggesting.
“Come on,” House commands, a bit impatiently, and jerks his head in the direction of his bedroom door. He taps his cane a few times on the floor before disappearing with a huff into the room.
It takes a few minutes for the proposal to pass through the haze of sleep in Wilson’s brain, and even then he’s still not sure what House is implying. Or more importantly, why. But by the time he begins to question it he’s already vertical and walking across the apartment to follow House into the bedroom.
There aren’t any lights on in here, either, and it’s only by sheer luck that Wilson stumbles upon the right side of the bed to collapse on it. The comforter is soft on his bare skin and smells like sweat and the faint reminder of fabric cleaner. He crawls to the head of the bed, where a pillow is waiting for him and he greedily wraps his arms around it, pressing his face into its supple embrace.
A relieved, satisfied sigh makes its way past his lips.
“Stop squashing the blankets,” House complains ill-naturedly from somewhere at his left. “At least get under the covers if you plan to sleep here.” He says it like he isn’t the one who invited Wilson into his bed in the first place.
Wilson sighs again, this time exasperatedly, at the directive. He doesn’t want to move now that he is so close to being able to sleep comfortably. But like all the other times he does what House asks. Bunching back the comforter with his hands and feet, he settles himself in the bed properly, tugging the blankets around his waist. The sheets underneath are cool, but just as soft, and he finds himself drifting off to sleep easily and peacefully when an arm snakes it way around his back.
The move jolts Wilson awake again. “House,” he says, and it’s definitely a whine this time, “I’m trying to sleep.” He bucks a little under the covers, trying to dislodge the offending limb, but it keeps its station securely. “I just want to sleep,” he begs, a little pitifully.
“So sleep,” House replies, and his voice is right next to Wilson’s ear.
Wilson can feel the warm puff of breath against his neck, becomes aware of the press of body heat along the entirety of his left side. It’s oddly nice, in a Twilight Zone way, and he’s content to let House do whatever it is that he plans to do if it means he can finally rest.
The hand that has been resting on the small of his back slowly slides up along his spine to the space between his shoulder blades and then back down to his lower back in the semblance of a caress. Wilson makes an appreciative little moan, forgoing for the moment the strange association of the hand belonging to House, and informs the pillow, “God, I’m so tired.”
He doesn’t necessarily want House to stop; it’s been a long time since someone has touched him, longer than he’d like to admit. But if the man is trying to seduce him, as bizarre a concept as that is, Wilson wants him to know that he won’t have much luck, not tonight at least.
“I know,” House murmurs, stroking Wilson’s back soothingly again. “You should be.”
The confidence in the statement is perfectly House and makes Wilson chuckle softly. “Why? Because of how hard I’ve been working lately?”
He says this sarcastically, though there’s truth to it. He has been working hard lately, but then he always works too much. He knows he’s a classic workaholic; he has embraced and encouraged this fact about himself for a long time.
“No,” House corrects, lengthening the word into something theatrical and patronizing. His hand stalls in the middle of Wilson’s shoulders, just below his neck. “Because of the diazepam I put in your coffee last night.”
The comment suddenly has Wilson’s blood flowing more quickly, his pulse speeding up as his heartbeat increases. Ideas of going to sleep are banished from his mind as he tries to understand House’s confession. Briefly he recalls the coffee House brought with him during his original spontaneous visit to the hotel, approximately three hours ago. The memory, coupled with the carefree admittance, stirs up dazed feelings of betrayal and anger.
Wilson attempts to roll over and face House head on but he is halted by the firm press of House’s hand on his back, restricting his movement.
“You drugged me?” Wilson demands of the pillow, clenching its case into his fists as he shifts his hips irritably against the mattress. He really wants to turn over so that he can strangle House for his dangerous antics. “You drugged me,” he says again, with a little more conviction and lot more heat.
He’s bitterly surprised that he would ever expect more of House.
“Well I needed some way to get you out of that stupid hotel,” House defends petulantly, his face pressing into the back of Wilson’s neck, lips just gently skimming the sensitive skin there. Wilson can feel the rough scratch of his stubble followed by the soft, smooth line of his lips. He barely suppresses a shiver.
It’s an oddly intimate gesture, to be able to feel House’s words along with hear them. It almost erases the urge to choke him, but Wilson refuses to as readily forgive House for his stupid logic.
“And drugging me is the only way you thought of?” Outwardly he balks, though inwardly he can believe it. Of course House uses drugs as a miracle cure-all. “House,” Wilson intones, and if he had the energy to pinch the bridge of his nose right now he would. “Diazepam takes eight hours to wear off. I have to get up at five to go to work tomorrow.”
He groans, frustrated and annoyed, more so at the fact that he has to deal with this now instead of sleep like he wants. Though, he supposes he wouldn’t feel the pressing need to sleep as much if House hadn’t drugged him in the first place. Never again will he be foolish enough to accept free coffee.
The entire situation unnerves him, grates on him, but he refuses to let himself be angered at House’s ridiculous actions. He doesn’t want to deal with it immediately; it will still be there, waiting for him in the morning, and it can just as easily be dealt with then. Right now, he wants to sleep and sinks his resentment into the mattress with his weight, steeling his muscles against any suggestion that he move to the couch.
He’s here now and he’s going to sleep. He’ll kill House when he has full faculty of his brain and can think of a place to hide the body.
House must feel his resolve to stay on his stomach, or at least not attempt to murder him presently, because he once again slides his hand down Wilson’s back, roughly kneading the strained muscles under his flesh.
“So sleep in. Or better yet take the day off,” he suggests after a tense moment, his voice loud and blaring in the dark. “I’m sure Cuddy’ll understand. You haven’t taken a vacation day in years.”
A couple silent beats pass as he strokes up and down Wilson’s back a few more times. It’s strangely soothing to be comforted like this by House. Some of Wilson’s anger begins to abate.
Then, very quietly, almost apologetically, House whispers, “You deserve one, you know.”
The impromptu massage, along with House’s body heat and lips on his neck, have lulled Wilson into a more receptive mood. Then again, that could just be a side effect of the diazepam rearing its hypnotic head. His muscles loosen, and he stretches languidly along the expanse of the bed, feeling the urge for deep unconsciousness tug at his mind.
At House’s addition, he smiles despite himself. His friend can make the most obscure comments erase the most heinous of deeds. Wilson supposes it’s one of the reasons they have stayed friends.
“Two birds with one stone,” he finally replies, infusing his tone with his smile. “Is that it?”
“Something like that,” House murmurs against his neck, and Wilson can feel him smile in return.
What an odd thing it is to finally have tangible proof of their friendship: to be able to feel House smile instead of simply seeing it. Wilson thinks he could get used to this, whatever this is, and it’s then that he forgives House for his discretion. He meant well, regardless of how he went about it. Of course, Wilson won’t let House know this, not yet anyway.
Instead he shuffles closer to House, teasing, “Never took you for a cuddler.”
“Shut up,” House replies brusquely, winding his arm around Wilson’s hip to anchor him against House more securely.
Wilson refuses to obey, seeking his revenge in the only way possible. “Always thought you’d be the type who’d like his space,” he says, his mouth stretching into the laugh that his lungs haven’t the energy to complete, “Too much of a manly man to want to cuddle.”
House snorts at the phrasing, pinching lightly at Wilson’s love handles. “I thought you were tired,” he remarks, a clear warning that Wilson should stop talking and go to bed.
“I am,” Wilson admits, and as soon as he says it the drag of sleep returns to weigh heavily upon him. He adjusts his head on the pillow to a more comfortable position, smile relaxing from his mouth. “I’m just saying,” he appends, unwilling to give up the goat just yet. Goading House is too much fun.
“Yeah, well, shut up now and go to sleep,” House declares. The arm around him tightens as if to punctuate the statement.
This time Wilson has every intention of listening. He adjusts his limbs once more, skirting his knee to the left until it brushes against House’s leg and he can feel the bristle of leg hair against the bared skin of his ankle. Somehow it’s reassuring to have House pressed against his side, the added heat and company promising a night of peaceful sleeping that he hasn’t had since before his divorce. He wonders if House knows, and despite his apparent inebriated state or maybe because of it, Wilson finds the need to communicate his appreciativeness with his friend.
“It’s nice, is all, the cuddling,” he murmurs, voice slurring as unconsciousness steals more of his brain. He smothers back a yawn and begins to follow the usual train of thought that will lead him into dreamland.
House, always the owner of the last word, murmurs something in reply. Wilson sighs contentedly, and maybe a little smugly, as he feels the comment whispered against his neck before sleep claims him once and for all.
“Yeah. It is.”
Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go
I wanna be sedated
Nothing to do and no where to go, oh
Nothing to do and no where to go, oh
I wanna be sedated
– I Wanna Be Sedated, The Ramones
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The End.
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March 9 2007, 21:18:31 UTC 5 years ago
March 10 2007, 03:58:38 UTC 5 years ago
Drugged!Wilson was very fun to write. *g*
March 10 2007, 04:47:22 UTC 5 years ago
pinching lightly at Wilson’s love handles
Nice little addition. It's true, Wilson is a pit pudgy. :squishes: I like how you subtly slid that in there. Hee.
and in reference to the author's note: I don't think he really went to hang with the fellows. They cleverly cut away with his hand resting on the door. He's not the type. If anything, he'd probably go in just to snark them for doubting him, or not figuring it out sooner.
watch Wilson practically beg for pizza
parallels have been drawn between that scene and Chase's microwave pizza comment at the end of the last ep. So when I read that bit, I couldn't help thinking pizza=sex.
March 10 2007, 05:16:01 UTC 5 years ago
I am so very amused that it seems like the entire fandom is a bit obsessed with Wilson's pudge. That was my throw out to them.
I totally didn't mean those comments as author's notes; I was just bitching, but since you replied: it's possible that House really did go back to Wilson in the end off screen. But -- I'm still upset that they would even imply otherwise on the show. Hm.
pizza=sex
Hah hah! Yes. Hilarious. They are just being trickier with the slashy vibes.
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March 10 2007, 05:34:43 UTC 5 years ago
March 10 2007, 05:37:49 UTC 5 years ago
Um. There might be more of drugged!Wilson in the future... Possibly.
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March 10 2007, 06:10:30 UTC 5 years ago
Drugged Wilson is adorable. lol
Believable fluff too since House drugged him. :)
March 10 2007, 06:45:42 UTC 5 years ago
And I'm pleased it was believable. The best fluff usually is.
Thanks for commenting.
March 10 2007, 06:44:46 UTC 5 years ago
Of course House uses drugs as a miracle cure-all. That is the perfect line to pull it all together. House can't just be honest about what he wants of Wilson, so he uses drugs.
It was my pleasure. :)
March 10 2007, 06:51:15 UTC 5 years ago
When you said something about the paralle between House using drugs to solve his problems and then drugging Wilson I knew I had to put that in somewhere. It was too perfect not to mention.
Looks like your betaing skills aren't so rusty after all. *g*
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March 10 2007, 08:03:30 UTC 5 years ago
March 10 2007, 08:29:32 UTC 5 years ago
March 10 2007, 12:14:00 UTC 5 years ago
you really got wilson's exhaustion across perfectly.
and it was SO DARN LOVELY!!!! i do like protective!house
March 11 2007, 07:31:09 UTC 5 years ago
Thank you VERY much. I'm so pleased you enjoyed. I was worried that I wasn't expressing Wilson's exhaustion/drugged-out nature adequetly (how many time can you say a guy is tired?) so I'm glad it worked.
And yes, protective!House is quite lovely. Quite. Thanks for commenting.
March 10 2007, 14:57:39 UTC 5 years ago
March 11 2007, 07:32:17 UTC 5 years ago
House can really only do something nice if it's most likely ethically wrong.
Hah hah. Precisely.
March 10 2007, 19:04:22 UTC 5 years ago
March 11 2007, 07:33:40 UTC 5 years ago
Ta very much. I'm glad you liked it.
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March 10 2007, 19:52:45 UTC 5 years ago
March 11 2007, 07:35:10 UTC 5 years ago
MaybeFine. I'm a-working on it.March 11 2007, 02:05:55 UTC 5 years ago
March 11 2007, 07:36:53 UTC 5 years ago
I fell in love with the word "sonnambulant" after watching The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari many, many years ago.
Cheers. I'm glad you enjoyed it.
March 11 2007, 02:44:34 UTC 5 years ago
March 11 2007, 07:39:24 UTC 5 years ago
Saying anything more than that will be telling. *g* You'll just have to wait and see.
Thanks for commenting.
March 11 2007, 04:07:05 UTC 5 years ago
March 11 2007, 07:40:30 UTC 5 years ago
Believable fluff is the best thing ever. I'm glad I could deliver.
March 11 2007, 08:09:54 UTC 5 years ago
One quick question/nitpick. Is "Give up the goat" supposed to be Wilson's drugged mangling of the actual phrase, which is "give up the ghost"?
March 11 2007, 08:26:47 UTC 5 years ago
"Give up the goat" is indeed intentional. It's a common linguistic mistake that has now somewhat morphed into the accepted lexicon. (No, really. I went about the internets and researched this.) It is the mangling of the phrase "give up the ghost" but it isn't inherently wrong anymore. It's a well-used idiom. I've heard it quite frequently. But, if it's distracting, perhaps I should change it.
I did find this amusing anecdote as to the "origin" of the phrase:
The other day my elderly country neighbour asked for a bit of help to get his new washing machine into the kitchen. That generation never use “it”, always, “he” or “she”, so I wasn’t surprised to hear the washing machine called “he”, but I was surprised by what followed: “My old washing machine, he’s given up the goat,” he said, in a broad Gloucestershire accent.
“The goat?” I replied. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes,” said my neighbour, “ain’t you never heard that expression before, given up the goat?”
“Well, not exactly . . . where does it come from?”
“Ah well,” said my neighbour, “in the old days, when folks didn’t have much, and mainly worked the land, a man would set store by his animals, especially his goat, and when he come to die, he would bequeath that goat to his heirs, and that is why we say, ‘he’s given up the goat’.”
March 11 2007, 13:31:12 UTC 5 years ago
"He’s here now and he’s going to sleep. He’ll kill House when he has full faculty of his brain and can think of a place to hide the body."
Hee, oh yes, perfect. ;) Thanks again for this!
*mems*
March 11 2007, 23:10:51 UTC 5 years ago
That's one of my favourite lines as well.
Thanks for commenting and for the *mem*. (Yay I was mem'd!)
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March 11 2007, 17:41:19 UTC 5 years ago
Thanks very much for sharing.
March 11 2007, 23:12:47 UTC 5 years ago
Thanks very much for commenting. *g*
March 11 2007, 18:28:43 UTC 5 years ago
March 11 2007, 23:15:08 UTC 5 years ago
Thanks for the comment and for the *mem*
March 11 2007, 21:16:27 UTC 5 years ago
It was worth it.
March 11 2007, 23:08:03 UTC 5 years ago
Thanks.
March 11 2007, 21:31:52 UTC 5 years ago
March 11 2007, 23:17:26 UTC 5 years ago
And... there is a sequel in the works presently. Hopefully I'll figure out what I'm trying to do so that I can finish it.
March 12 2007, 01:26:08 UTC 5 years ago
Lovely beyond words! <3<3<3
PS: I agree with a your comment somewhere above, I love every version of Wilson, pudgy/skinny/hysterical/everything... Love Wilson in every form!
PPS: Dreaming for a sequel! <3<3<3
March 12 2007, 01:43:53 UTC 5 years ago
I don't think Wilson could do anything/look like anything that would make me stop being in love with him. Unless, of course, he stopped being protrayed by RSL. Then I'd probably fall out of love.
There is a sequel being written. It, er, is coming along slowly.
March 12 2007, 04:41:10 UTC 5 years ago
(would also like a sequel! lol)
March 12 2007, 04:49:56 UTC 5 years ago
(Sequel's coming, sequel's coming...
in like two months)Thanks for commeting! And welcome to the fandom.
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March 12 2007, 16:42:06 UTC 5 years ago
March 12 2007, 23:10:39 UTC 5 years ago
And yes, DRUGGED!WILSON. He's lovely, isn't he?
Thank you.
March 13 2007, 05:36:56 UTC 5 years ago
March 13 2007, 05:39:06 UTC 5 years ago
But yes, no. I threw clues out there for people to pick up on so I'm glad that you did.
Thanks.
March 16 2007, 03:37:01 UTC 5 years ago
March 16 2007, 04:22:11 UTC 5 years ago
Schmanku very much.
March 16 2007, 04:15:11 UTC 5 years ago
March 16 2007, 04:20:58 UTC 5 years ago
Um, I'm sorry. What? Oh right!
Schmanku. Drugged!Wilson is devlishly fun to write. You should go thank missviolet; thank her because she is wonderful for reccing this in the first place.
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