How did he manage to get a wineglass and a doberman... nevermind. I don't want to know. Zechs thought as he went to the infirmary to see if Treize was doing better.

Treize was staring at the ceiling, wondering how many of the officers below him in ranking were laughing their heads off right now. Even Une had snickered when she'd seen his predicament. Agreeing to take care of Dermails' dog had been a bad idea. How could he have known the damned creature was an alcoholic? And having a doberman running at you with a long stemmed crystal wineglass was a disturbing sight. Especially after it had gauged his leg with the damned glass. Une had first come upon him, cramped up under his desk and sporting many wounds from the dog, beating the animal back with a riding crop.

He looked to his left, seeing the dog strapped down on another bed, sleeping off the hangover. Treize closed his eyes tightly, determined to swear off cognac for the rest of his life.

The familiar footfalls of metalshod boots sounded in the room, and he opened his eyes. Zechs, minus his mask.

"How are you doing sir?" Zechs asked.

"Better, I beliebe -- but do me a favour, Zechs. Take your sword and run that damned dog through."