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refugee from the eightfold path
Title: refugee from the eightfold path
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phinnia
Prompt:houseonmywilson: spirituality
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
Notes: In which there is beer, new food trends, no regrets and House's father doesn't have a stroke, but he could have. (I must be sick. I just wrote this whole thing and I'm not the least bit hungry.)
Wilson was making thai curry, and House was supervising: an ordinary Saturday night.
"When I was younger I thought about joining a Buddhist monastery." House poked the blooming saffron threads, swirling them around in their ramekin of coconut cream with the end of a chopstick.
"You?" Wilson nearly choked on his beer, pointing the bottle at House through the sizzle and steam. "I'm surprised you believe in sunrise."
House's blue eyes, tempered by two or three drinks, danced with an unspoken memory. "Can you imagine my father's face?"
"If you came home with a shaved head?"
"And a yellow robe. And pacifist vows."
"I think he'd have a stroke."
"So did I when I was fourteen."
"Only you would seek rebellion in a spiritual community." He took another sip of his beer, stepped away from the wok for a moment and squinted, trying to picture his scruffy friend clean-shaven and devout.
He'd be walking without the cane. There'd be no Vicodin, no dance with liver failure, no jagged, pitted thigh. No shootings or knives in wall sockets or crazy cops with vendettas. No morphine.
No Saturday nights making curry and drinking beer. No diagnostic miracles. No poker games, no crazy stories, stolen lunches, bright-eyed plot debates about the L-Word and General Hospital, stolen blowjobs in the supply closet. No lazy Sunday morning sex.
"You know, it may not be my specialty, but I don't think yellow curry normally presents with smoke."
"Shit." Wilson flipped the gas off on the stove and poked the curry a bit. There were quite a few pieces with blackened edges.. "Goddamnit."
"Oh, quit fussing. Just call it Cajun-Thai fusion. You'll be the next celebrity chef."
Wilson stirred the cream into the waiting stirfry and started scooping rice onto waiting plates. "So what convinced you? The sex thing?"
"Sex thing? Buddhist monks can have sex." He drained his bottle and accepted a plate of food from Wilson. "No, it was the no-worldly-possessions thing. I was already sick of having to fit everything I owned into a single bag."
"I suppose that explains your packrat tendencies."
"I like to think of myself as adequately prepared for all situations. Stop looking so damn maudlin." House's fingers brushed Wilson's as he accepted another beer - his broad-daylight version of a hug. Wilson smiled. " It's all impemanent anyway, according to the Buddha."
Wilson thought that sounded suspiciously like faith, but he said nothing: just smiled as House stole his chicken and he stole House's carrots, and looked forward to beard burn and lazy morning sex.
Author:
phinniaPrompt:
houseonmywilson: spiritualityRating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
Notes: In which there is beer, new food trends, no regrets and House's father doesn't have a stroke, but he could have. (I must be sick. I just wrote this whole thing and I'm not the least bit hungry.)
Wilson was making thai curry, and House was supervising: an ordinary Saturday night.
"When I was younger I thought about joining a Buddhist monastery." House poked the blooming saffron threads, swirling them around in their ramekin of coconut cream with the end of a chopstick.
"You?" Wilson nearly choked on his beer, pointing the bottle at House through the sizzle and steam. "I'm surprised you believe in sunrise."
House's blue eyes, tempered by two or three drinks, danced with an unspoken memory. "Can you imagine my father's face?"
"If you came home with a shaved head?"
"And a yellow robe. And pacifist vows."
"I think he'd have a stroke."
"So did I when I was fourteen."
"Only you would seek rebellion in a spiritual community." He took another sip of his beer, stepped away from the wok for a moment and squinted, trying to picture his scruffy friend clean-shaven and devout.
He'd be walking without the cane. There'd be no Vicodin, no dance with liver failure, no jagged, pitted thigh. No shootings or knives in wall sockets or crazy cops with vendettas. No morphine.
No Saturday nights making curry and drinking beer. No diagnostic miracles. No poker games, no crazy stories, stolen lunches, bright-eyed plot debates about the L-Word and General Hospital, stolen blowjobs in the supply closet. No lazy Sunday morning sex.
"You know, it may not be my specialty, but I don't think yellow curry normally presents with smoke."
"Shit." Wilson flipped the gas off on the stove and poked the curry a bit. There were quite a few pieces with blackened edges.. "Goddamnit."
"Oh, quit fussing. Just call it Cajun-Thai fusion. You'll be the next celebrity chef."
Wilson stirred the cream into the waiting stirfry and started scooping rice onto waiting plates. "So what convinced you? The sex thing?"
"Sex thing? Buddhist monks can have sex." He drained his bottle and accepted a plate of food from Wilson. "No, it was the no-worldly-possessions thing. I was already sick of having to fit everything I owned into a single bag."
"I suppose that explains your packrat tendencies."
"I like to think of myself as adequately prepared for all situations. Stop looking so damn maudlin." House's fingers brushed Wilson's as he accepted another beer - his broad-daylight version of a hug. Wilson smiled. " It's all impemanent anyway, according to the Buddha."
Wilson thought that sounded suspiciously like faith, but he said nothing: just smiled as House stole his chicken and he stole House's carrots, and looked forward to beard burn and lazy morning sex.
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*hugs*
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