It's getting hard to focus on the words on the little screen, but he sees the word tomorrow and latches onto it, ignoring the rest. It can wait until he sobers up, he figures. It's the most important part, isn't it?

Sure

Anything more seems like too much effort. He tops up his glass and drinks again, feeling that knot of panic slowly start to unfurl, muffled and soothed in the warm haze of alcohol. He's fine. Everything is fine.

There's a fluttering and a small set of claws on his shoulder, and a croaking noise in his ear. He reaches up to roughly pat the raven, not sure if it's Huggan or Miskunn, and not much caring. It's nice not to be alone, with someone who isn't going to judge him. Who isn't going to tell him that this is a problem, that his greatest method of coping is wrong. He needs this.

Doesn't he?