[Anyone who hasn't seen how Stephen sleeps will have their chance now. Answer: dressed in several hodgepodge layers of old, dirty-looking pajamas, an orthopedic wrist brace strapped onto his right arm...though all of that's hard to make out because he's wrapped chin to toe in the Cloak of Levitation, which is outright cuddling with him.
He jerks awake with a start when someone steps too near, sitting up too fast as his brain very suddenly registers that he's woken in a strange place.]
What --?!
II (OTA; cw drug use/addiction)
[God, he needs this, and he knows it's fucked up that he needs it. Stephen is trying to be discreet, tucked up against a wall with his stuff, but his hands are shaking and the pills rattle against one another as he pours them out onto a handkerchief on the floor. He glances up once or twice, grimacing like he's afraid of being caught at something illicit, as he counts the pills back into their bottle as quickly as he can.]
III (OTA)
[For a while, Stephen can be found sitting and staring intently at the pit, his things around him. He could swear --
A bit of rummaging, and he comes up with an empty deodorant stick -- garbage, really, that he hadn't quite gotten around to throwing away, some thought in the back of his mind that he might scrape one or two more uses out of the barren plastic. Leaving the rest of his things piled up, he steps slowly and carefully closer, crossing the last few yards on his knees to set the deodorant an inch from its edge. He returns to where he was to sit quietly again, watching.]
IV (closed -- for House)
[As much as it pains him, Stephen Strange knows exactly how many of each kind of pill is on his person at all times. He knows exactly where each bottle is and what sound it makes, and exactly how much he's counted back into each of them every day for weeks now. So when his obsessive need drives him to check through all his pockets, counting up bottles, it's impossible for him to miss the fact that he's coming up one short. Impossible, too, to miss the significance of which one it is. His private panic is brief, as is his search through his bags -- he knows better than to think he's misplaced it.
Well, if House wants to start shit, so be it. Stephen comes storming his way, hands clenched into shaking fists at his sides.]
no subject
[Anyone who hasn't seen how Stephen sleeps will have their chance now. Answer: dressed in several hodgepodge layers of old, dirty-looking pajamas, an orthopedic wrist brace strapped onto his right arm...though all of that's hard to make out because he's wrapped chin to toe in the Cloak of Levitation, which is outright cuddling with him.
He jerks awake with a start when someone steps too near, sitting up too fast as his brain very suddenly registers that he's woken in a strange place.]
What --?!
II (OTA; cw drug use/addiction)
[God, he needs this, and he knows it's fucked up that he needs it. Stephen is trying to be discreet, tucked up against a wall with his stuff, but his hands are shaking and the pills rattle against one another as he pours them out onto a handkerchief on the floor. He glances up once or twice, grimacing like he's afraid of being caught at something illicit, as he counts the pills back into their bottle as quickly as he can.]
III (OTA)
[For a while, Stephen can be found sitting and staring intently at the pit, his things around him. He could swear --
A bit of rummaging, and he comes up with an empty deodorant stick -- garbage, really, that he hadn't quite gotten around to throwing away, some thought in the back of his mind that he might scrape one or two more uses out of the barren plastic. Leaving the rest of his things piled up, he steps slowly and carefully closer, crossing the last few yards on his knees to set the deodorant an inch from its edge. He returns to where he was to sit quietly again, watching.]
IV (closed -- for House)
[As much as it pains him, Stephen Strange knows exactly how many of each kind of pill is on his person at all times. He knows exactly where each bottle is and what sound it makes, and exactly how much he's counted back into each of them every day for weeks now. So when his obsessive need drives him to check through all his pockets, counting up bottles, it's impossible for him to miss the fact that he's coming up one short. Impossible, too, to miss the significance of which one it is. His private panic is brief, as is his search through his bags -- he knows better than to think he's misplaced it.
Well, if House wants to start shit, so be it. Stephen comes storming his way, hands clenched into shaking fists at his sides.]
Hand it over.