I hate snow. I wish when it snowed in Jersey that it was conveniently fifty degrees or so. That's about right, I figure. I'm too lazy to actually bring a thermometer, so we'll just guess.

{Everyone's favorite (???) grumpy doctor has dragged a bar stool outside of the bar and into the snow. He wanted to bring some rum or bourbon to get rid of the chill, but now that it's gone and he's technically working? Just some soda. Which is unfortunate for him, because he was looking forward to that.}

Damn, I was looking forward to drinking a little bit. Is this like God's weird form of saying "screw you?" Jerk. But I'd rather avoid the deja vu of the nun and epinephrine. Actually, maybe if I was drunk, Cuddy would believe that I didn't make a mistake. Buzzed medicine is so like buzzed driving. I work better when I'm stoned and-or drunk out of my mind.

That's a joke, by the way. In case you perceptive types can't pick up on the delicate nuances of sarcasm.

{Siiip}

So I--we--have a new pad. And not gonna lie, it's pretty sweet. Problem is, knowing Wilson, it's going to be some pristine shrine to how much of a polite control freak he is. I need to figure out a way to mess that up, and fast. Maybe I'll just figure out a way to move all my stuff in before has the chance.

((ooc: House is now canon-updated to the end of 'Wilson' [S6 Ep10]! So he's slightly less scruffy, among other things.))

[Rawr, darned fighting- Emilia has lived among soldiers for all of her married life and a few brief spots outside of that but she still doesn't much like being woken up in the middle of the night by people trying to stab each other. It's really quite annoying- as is having to walk all the way down from where she was sleeping.

So! There is a grumpy Emilia standing on the Plane and looking rather sleepy; a thick robe is thrown on over her night clothes but she still looks a bit cold. Perhaps because she is actually choosing to stare at the snow]

...'Twould appear that curses still haunt, and the cold dost still taunt, on this heavenly night of coldest strife.

[A pause and then she yawns and starts grumbling to herself]

Oh, man! 'Tis fit that they stab and scream, wake us from our slumbered dream. They dost not think of cultured thing; or their beloved ring. Nay, 'tis only the coldest fight- they doth understand little else of harmony but they doth brutalize that little grasp. Not a soldier’s lot, nor a reasoned lot but a lot of devils and flesh.

[Another pause and another yawn; then she settles her cloak around her more firmly and gives the snow a glare- for obviously it is the source of all her woes, obviously]

...The freeze reflects the change. 'Twould better if folk touched frost.

[OOC: Canon update to the end of act 2~; so she's currently just been awoken from a fairly nice sleep by a bit of fighting and isn't that happy about it.]

—just trying... to... [Chivy trails off, hands still up mid-gesture, as he realizes that this is very much not the street corner he was standing on... and the person he was asking for directions isn't exactly there anymore.] This isn't a pawn shop. [No, really?] Or the...

[Actually looking around inspires another trail-off — in no way is it cold enough for snow. Not that he's complaining, anyway, he's dressed for much colder temperatures. In fact, he decides to take a moment to pull off his scarf and mittens, the coat and toboggan hat can stay for now. That's given him enough time to look around, but the look doesn't tell him anything useful.

Coping method A (ramble to distract himself): engage.] Or anywhere I've ever been. I don't think I've ever seen the stars so bright. That doesn't... I mean, how did I get here?