Closed to Cuddy
So. Cuddy was in the Hotel, according to Snape. It was only because the potion that Snape gave House wasn't enough to curb what he wanted that he was back in the bar, otherwise he'd have been bashing on her hotel room door by now, once he found out what room it was. That was probably a very good thing, for Cuddy especially. Even if she knew House was around, she hadn't been subjected to him personally. Yet.
One of the things House did when he was feeling exceptionally unstable was that he projected his stress through being extremely hostile and volatile to those around him, and he tended to manifest what he couldn't handle into pain in his leg. Needless to say, House was in a lot of pain. Or so he thought.
And to make matter worse, he only had those five pills left. It was only by sheer force that he was rationing his pills to try and make them stretch, but lowering his Vicodin intake dramatically also meant that he was suffering withdrawal from it. Which was hardly a surprise that he'd taken to drinking more as a form of self-medication to numb his mind and his pain. The downside to that was that he was becoming dependent on the drink, and quickly. Especially Firewhiskey. As a result of this, and of his pain and withdrawal, his complexion had taken on a sallow look; he looked sweaty and pasty, there were bags under his eyes and he'd lost a little weight. He didn't exactly look his best.
This whole falling out thing with Wilson was only exacerbating the situation even further, and House felt too proud and indignant to fix a situation he needed to fix for his sanity, and for Wilson's.
So, yes. House wasn't a pleasant person to be around, at all.
He had a glass of Firewhiskey in front of him on the bar, and he was staring down at his drink moodily as he absently rubbed his hand up and down his thigh. He lifted his drink to his mouth and threw the contents back sharply. Thumping the glass hard on the bench before he pushed it towards the bartender, he grunted, "Another."
One of the things House did when he was feeling exceptionally unstable was that he projected his stress through being extremely hostile and volatile to those around him, and he tended to manifest what he couldn't handle into pain in his leg. Needless to say, House was in a lot of pain. Or so he thought.
And to make matter worse, he only had those five pills left. It was only by sheer force that he was rationing his pills to try and make them stretch, but lowering his Vicodin intake dramatically also meant that he was suffering withdrawal from it. Which was hardly a surprise that he'd taken to drinking more as a form of self-medication to numb his mind and his pain. The downside to that was that he was becoming dependent on the drink, and quickly. Especially Firewhiskey. As a result of this, and of his pain and withdrawal, his complexion had taken on a sallow look; he looked sweaty and pasty, there were bags under his eyes and he'd lost a little weight. He didn't exactly look his best.
This whole falling out thing with Wilson was only exacerbating the situation even further, and House felt too proud and indignant to fix a situation he needed to fix for his sanity, and for Wilson's.
So, yes. House wasn't a pleasant person to be around, at all.
He had a glass of Firewhiskey in front of him on the bar, and he was staring down at his drink moodily as he absently rubbed his hand up and down his thigh. He lifted his drink to his mouth and threw the contents back sharply. Thumping the glass hard on the bench before he pushed it towards the bartender, he grunted, "Another."