New fic: Niyamas, or One Night at Wilson's
Title: Niyamas, or One Night at Wilson’s
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, House and Wilson friendship
Summary: Hanging out with some beer and some baseball.
Author’s Note: Written for the drabble challenge at Housefic_Pens to create a connected series of 100 to 200-word drabbles using a common theme that combine to make a short story.
I based these around the yoga concepts of the niyamas -- but before you run away screaming, be assured there are no downward dogs or triangle poses within. No philosophy is actually bandied about. It’s just a structural thing.
Drabbles are new to me, so any feedback as to whether they work would be appreciated. If they do, I may try a related series based around the yamas.
Saucha (cleanliness)
“Is it broken?”
Wilson jerked his head up at the sound of House’s voice coming from the end of the counter. He’d thought House was settled on the couch with the remote.
“What?”
“The dishwasher.” House nodded toward the kitchen.
Wilson passed a dish under the stream of hot water. “It only takes a couple of minutes to wash these by hand.”
“So why have it?”
“Because it came with the place.”
“So why take this place?”
“Are you just bored or is there a particular reason why you’re asking about my appliances?”
House shrugged. “Just doesn’t make sense to rent a place with a dishwasher you never use.”
“It makes as much sense as you owning a crock pot.”
“At least I use it.”
“I’m pretty sure your Mom expected you’d use it for something other than storing spare change.”
“At least it gets more use than your dishwasher.”
House pushed himself away from the counter and headed back toward the living room.
“Hey, where are you ....”
“Commercial’s over,” House said. Wilson heard the TV volume increase. “Game’s on. Hurry up.”
------------------------------
Santosa (contentment)
House stretched his legs onto the coffee table. He heard the water shut off in the kitchen. Wilson would be there soon, probably with beer.
On the TV, the Indians were looking for a rally in the top of the fifth. His father had rooted for the Indians. House’s favorite team was whoever was playing the Indians. Today it was the Tigers.
“Watch this,” he said as Wilson walked in, carrying two bottles. “Bonderman’s got his curve under control this season.”
Wilson sat next to House and handed over a bottle.
Strike one.
“Didn’t he lose a bunch last year?”
Strike two.
“Sure,” House said. “ But this year he’s 10 and 4.”
He studied the screen. The pitcher seemed strong and sure. House would have diagnosed steroids, but Bonderman hadn’t gotten any bigger. Instead he looked comfortable in his own skin and took the mound as if he owned it. As if it was a second home.
House glanced over as Wilson leaned back and put his feet up on the table. He looked back at Wilson’s TV, enjoying the plasma’s high resolution picture.
The pitcher started his motion, each move steady, as if he was at home.
Strike three.
------------------------------------
Tapas (ardor or passion)
Wilson played outfield in Little League. Each spring he’d take his glove and rub oil into the leather until it was supple.
It was a left handed fielder’s glove, medium brown, with Rod Carew’s signature.
He’d place a baseball in the pocket, then sleep with it under his pillow. He fell asleep smelling the worn leather, and woke to its scent.
He loved the sound of the bat making contact with the ball. He’d take off running to get into place. He’d feel the sting in his hand as the ball slapped into the glove, then spin and whip it back to the infield.
Wilson heard cheering and looked up to see the instant replay of a home run.
“Young’s been tearing it up this year,” House said.
Wilson nodded. He wondered where his glove was.
Wilson learned what it was like to lose games when he was a kid. He’d learned about losing family when his brother disappeared, then with each divorce.
He should check the boxes again tonight, make sure he still had the glove someplace safe.
Wilson looked over as House applauded a double play. Some things were too important to lose.
-----------------------------
Svadhyaya (self study)
House had an unpublished book filling his head. On good days he called it: “My Leg: Its Signs and Warnings.” Other days the title was more ... colorful.
Each day began with personal diagnostic tests. After waking, he’d lie still, waiting for the first tingles and shocks, then he’d move slightly, see if the intensity changed or the nerves just buzzed quietly in the background.
He’d ease himself out of bed to test the muscles and joints -- checking for steadiness in what remained of his quad, an ache from stressed knee ligaments, or creaking from his hip and back -- before taking a step.
The tests continued through the day, tracking each familiar ache.
House caught his breath as the nerve pain ramped up. He shifted slightly on the couch. It didn’t look like Wilson had noticed. The burning sensation wasn’t new, but it was turning up more often. House knew that had to mean something, but he wasn’t sure what that was yet.
It hit again and he reached out one hand to rub along the length of his thigh.
“You OK?” Wilson turned away from the game.
The fire eased to an ember. “Fine,” House said. “Everything’s great.”
----------------------------
Isvara-pranidhana (surrendering to a higher power)
“Another beer?” Wilson was halfway to the kitchen.
House knew what he wanted. There was half a bag of chips on the table, and beer would taste great washing down the salty crumbs. But the damaged nerves shot out another warning and he shook his head. “I’m good.”
House wasn’t as casual about mixing meds and alcohol as some people thought. Some days he could skip a dose and instead let the beer or whiskey take the edge off of the pain.
This wasn’t one of those days.
Wilson stepped into the kitchen and House took advantage of his absence to give a deep massage to his thigh with both hands.
House knew he’d need an extra Vicodin tonight. He hoped that was all he’d need.
He hated days like this, when the pain took over and governed his every move.
House heard the refrigerator door close and he pulled his hands away. The pain may be stronger than he was today, but that didn’t mean House wanted Wilson or anyone else to realize that.
“You’re looking pretty comfortable there,” Wilson said.
“Why shouldn’t I be? The Indians are losing and the sun is shining. What else could I want?”
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, House and Wilson friendship
Summary: Hanging out with some beer and some baseball.
Author’s Note: Written for the drabble challenge at Housefic_Pens to create a connected series of 100 to 200-word drabbles using a common theme that combine to make a short story.
I based these around the yoga concepts of the niyamas -- but before you run away screaming, be assured there are no downward dogs or triangle poses within. No philosophy is actually bandied about. It’s just a structural thing.
Drabbles are new to me, so any feedback as to whether they work would be appreciated. If they do, I may try a related series based around the yamas.
Saucha (cleanliness)
“Is it broken?”
Wilson jerked his head up at the sound of House’s voice coming from the end of the counter. He’d thought House was settled on the couch with the remote.
“What?”
“The dishwasher.” House nodded toward the kitchen.
Wilson passed a dish under the stream of hot water. “It only takes a couple of minutes to wash these by hand.”
“So why have it?”
“Because it came with the place.”
“So why take this place?”
“Are you just bored or is there a particular reason why you’re asking about my appliances?”
House shrugged. “Just doesn’t make sense to rent a place with a dishwasher you never use.”
“It makes as much sense as you owning a crock pot.”
“At least I use it.”
“I’m pretty sure your Mom expected you’d use it for something other than storing spare change.”
“At least it gets more use than your dishwasher.”
House pushed himself away from the counter and headed back toward the living room.
“Hey, where are you ....”
“Commercial’s over,” House said. Wilson heard the TV volume increase. “Game’s on. Hurry up.”
------------------------------
Santosa (contentment)
House stretched his legs onto the coffee table. He heard the water shut off in the kitchen. Wilson would be there soon, probably with beer.
On the TV, the Indians were looking for a rally in the top of the fifth. His father had rooted for the Indians. House’s favorite team was whoever was playing the Indians. Today it was the Tigers.
“Watch this,” he said as Wilson walked in, carrying two bottles. “Bonderman’s got his curve under control this season.”
Wilson sat next to House and handed over a bottle.
Strike one.
“Didn’t he lose a bunch last year?”
Strike two.
“Sure,” House said. “ But this year he’s 10 and 4.”
He studied the screen. The pitcher seemed strong and sure. House would have diagnosed steroids, but Bonderman hadn’t gotten any bigger. Instead he looked comfortable in his own skin and took the mound as if he owned it. As if it was a second home.
House glanced over as Wilson leaned back and put his feet up on the table. He looked back at Wilson’s TV, enjoying the plasma’s high resolution picture.
The pitcher started his motion, each move steady, as if he was at home.
Strike three.
------------------------------------
Tapas (ardor or passion)
Wilson played outfield in Little League. Each spring he’d take his glove and rub oil into the leather until it was supple.
It was a left handed fielder’s glove, medium brown, with Rod Carew’s signature.
He’d place a baseball in the pocket, then sleep with it under his pillow. He fell asleep smelling the worn leather, and woke to its scent.
He loved the sound of the bat making contact with the ball. He’d take off running to get into place. He’d feel the sting in his hand as the ball slapped into the glove, then spin and whip it back to the infield.
Wilson heard cheering and looked up to see the instant replay of a home run.
“Young’s been tearing it up this year,” House said.
Wilson nodded. He wondered where his glove was.
Wilson learned what it was like to lose games when he was a kid. He’d learned about losing family when his brother disappeared, then with each divorce.
He should check the boxes again tonight, make sure he still had the glove someplace safe.
Wilson looked over as House applauded a double play. Some things were too important to lose.
-----------------------------
Svadhyaya (self study)
House had an unpublished book filling his head. On good days he called it: “My Leg: Its Signs and Warnings.” Other days the title was more ... colorful.
Each day began with personal diagnostic tests. After waking, he’d lie still, waiting for the first tingles and shocks, then he’d move slightly, see if the intensity changed or the nerves just buzzed quietly in the background.
He’d ease himself out of bed to test the muscles and joints -- checking for steadiness in what remained of his quad, an ache from stressed knee ligaments, or creaking from his hip and back -- before taking a step.
The tests continued through the day, tracking each familiar ache.
House caught his breath as the nerve pain ramped up. He shifted slightly on the couch. It didn’t look like Wilson had noticed. The burning sensation wasn’t new, but it was turning up more often. House knew that had to mean something, but he wasn’t sure what that was yet.
It hit again and he reached out one hand to rub along the length of his thigh.
“You OK?” Wilson turned away from the game.
The fire eased to an ember. “Fine,” House said. “Everything’s great.”
----------------------------
Isvara-pranidhana (surrendering to a higher power)
“Another beer?” Wilson was halfway to the kitchen.
House knew what he wanted. There was half a bag of chips on the table, and beer would taste great washing down the salty crumbs. But the damaged nerves shot out another warning and he shook his head. “I’m good.”
House wasn’t as casual about mixing meds and alcohol as some people thought. Some days he could skip a dose and instead let the beer or whiskey take the edge off of the pain.
This wasn’t one of those days.
Wilson stepped into the kitchen and House took advantage of his absence to give a deep massage to his thigh with both hands.
House knew he’d need an extra Vicodin tonight. He hoped that was all he’d need.
He hated days like this, when the pain took over and governed his every move.
House heard the refrigerator door close and he pulled his hands away. The pain may be stronger than he was today, but that didn’t mean House wanted Wilson or anyone else to realize that.
“You’re looking pretty comfortable there,” Wilson said.
“Why shouldn’t I be? The Indians are losing and the sun is shining. What else could I want?”