I wake up and I'm thinking three fucks. My fuckleg, my fuckhead and my fuckmorning. Fuck fuck fuck. Passed out on the couch. Not thinking. Just passed out. Breathing. I concentrate on it. I'm thinking it's important. Yesterday sucked and I can taste it. It's still raining and it doesn't make me feel any better. I'm thinking wet grass and hard floors and.
I consider trying to remember how I ended up in this cramped position, wanting to throw up something that I had apparently consumed in large amounts, but decide it's not really worth the effort.
Four hours and eighteen Cuddy-phone calls later I am badgered back to work, walking at my strange crippled hung over angle. I gather the energy I have reserved for glaring at people and go to hunch over on my office chair. Sigh sigh sigh. No cases today. No dying today. No dying is nice.
Cameron sees me and my hung over hunchedness and is getting to her feet with a threatening blue folder in her hands, but I glare effectively at her and she decides to not to want to deal with me right now and goes to make coffee instead. Good. Even I don't feel like dealing with myself today.
God. The fifth pill goes down with less effort than the last two. God. I'm tired. Tired tired tired tired tired. God. God. God. I must look very pathetic right now. I am forty years past caring. I snigger slightly. Going mad. It's very possible that I'm still drunk.
Wilson walks past my office twice. Walks in on the third time. I roll my eyes. I'm thinking he's thinking I have a problem. I'm thinking it's bad to be drunk at work.
I must have exchanged significantly unhelpful comments with him last night. In between the alcohol, I presume, because he's on the edge and all I've done by now is hunch pathetically on my chair and squint.
And he's persistent. Persistence, Perspiration, Perks, Pill. Pill pill pill.
"Just how long are you gonna keep doing this?" He's already sitting. This is strike two, I presume. I snigger very slightly.
"I don't know. Just how long are you gonna keep doing this?" I'm sniggering a bit more.
"Are you drunk?"
"I don't know. Am I?" More sniggering.
I get a sigh out of him for being annoying and dim and childish and insensitive and emotionally not-there and still drunk.
"You're drunk? At work? Drunk? House, I get it that you're – you're upset because you lost a patient, but – but drunk, at work?" He gets very agitated and sort of does this little nervous stance. And then the sigh and hand gesturing.
"Something – something… is clearly very wrong -"
I'm thinking he clearly doesn't need to administer anaesthesia during any procedures. He bores me and he unnerves me with prodding prodding and I must be clenching, actually clenching, I can feel myself clenching.
The slight raising of eyebrows, round eyes and… "Right." That effectively stops him. Also my getting up and grabbing my things has probably something to do with it, but you never know.
"House-"
"Very – very – bad to be drunk at work, you know."
He probably realized that he'd picked the wrong subject to prod around, however delicately. Fuck him for being so fucking. I'm going home. I'm still drunk.
