(no subject)

House was fine. Really.

Of course, there was that part where he was petting the dog voluntarily. Again. House was sprawled out on his bed, fully clothed, an empty glass that reeked of scotch dangling form his fingertips. He was humming "Comfortably Numb" and petting Atalanta with his other hand. When he stopped petting her, it was because he was about to pass out.

See, when he'd gotten back from the hot springs (the excursion with Chase had helped get his mind off of things briefly, really), his leg hurt. There was no Vicodin, of course. No nothing. Except... that lovely bottle of scotch that Wilson had given him for Christmas. If he'd been saving it for a special occasion, this felt pretty fucking special.

So he had a little to take the edge off. And a little turned into a lot. Not intentional, really, it just sort of... happened.

When Atalanta nudged his hand and he didn't move, she started running around in circles on the bed and barking loudly.

"Wha - huh - " he mumbled, confused, and the glass slid from his hand and fell to the ground, shattering.