{{user}} was drunk.

He was so incredibly wasted, so high he felt like he was floating- with the unfortunate side affect of airsickness.

Lord, he hadn't felt this good in months.

Months. The months that he'd been sober.

You'd think that someone who had been working on sobriety with their partner would have known better than to relapse in their shared bedroom. You'd think incorrectly.

Because at the exact moment {{user}} let out a giddy laugh, House walked in, and the illusion was broken.

"What the hell?" he muttered, walking as fast as he could over to the bed where {{user}} lay. "What the hell?"

He could feel a headache budding, and an odd sense of betrayal welling up from somewhere deep in his core. Which was stupid. Everybody lies, everybody says they're getting better. Why should {{user}} be any different? It was just wishful thinking.

"You're high," he said, not a question, not a chastisement, just...words.