A/N: It's short. Hope it works. Let me know if you think I got too sentimental at the end there. It just came to me. You can blame my muse. We don't have a close relationship yet, so I can't be held entirely responsible. Thanks for the reviews! They're just like candy, or vicodin-- if you're House.
PS: Little analogy-- Cuddy shot glass and House vodka. Just to clarify.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue-- please!?
The viscous fluid clung to the frosted glass bottle as House poured another shot.
Whisky, Good Ole Jimmy Dean, was for memories and woodsy scotch for the good times; they both brought a small amount a satisfaction to the damaged diagnostician.
House rarely drank the potent alcohol that burned down his throat. He didn't enjoy the bitter liquid currently coursing through his veins. With a sigh he slammed the shot glass on the table for the third time that night.
He was just trying to forget, but each time the empty glass came down it reminded him of the empty look which had haunted her eyes that afternoon.
The glass called to him. Fill me up. So he did.
He studied the glass; it almost looked the same with the smooth vodka inside as it had empty, except, he could just detect the meniscus near the rim.
How ironic.
House wondered if it would be the same with her. If he filled her up, would he know if she was satisfied? Would it make any difference to her, or would he just cause her more pain. The vodka was so bitter, harsh, abrasive …
... and potent, he thought, draining the glass and then leaning back deep into his leather couch. He closed his eyes as the heady feeling of intoxication swept over him in waves, numbing his sensors, but deceivingly alerting his mind. She wouldn't make it. She was fierce, but he knew he was too much. Whatever he could give would do more harm than help. Even if… he could detect… she would still seem hallow. There wasn't enough of him. The thought swirled round his mind while he stared down at his leg.
Her face twirled in his head as the vodka kicked in. It flickered bright then dark: her smile, her fury; her laughter, her sorrow. He stirred as the image of her alone in the dim office burdened his mind. She was enclosed in the glass walls, alone.
House reached for the bottle, now nearing the bottom and slightly tepid. He held the glass aloft for a moment in an unspoken toast, silently honoring the one woman who confronted him. With a quick jerk of the head he knocked it back. Looked down at the glass, quietly mourning her defeat and pain. Two things he understood better than anyone should.