Disclaimer: not mine (as if)
Summary: House's meditations one evening.
House popped another pill and meditated. Not the cheesy, take-a-deep-breath-and-say-'ommm', fingers making the 'OK' sign on your knees, breathing in incense sweet enough to make you gag and sneeze, sitting on a purple matt in your living room kind of meditation, but his type, House's unique type, of meditation, the kind that let his mind wander to the more confusing aspects of life. Being a puzzle-solver by nature, and, given his job as a diagnostician, he tended to like thinking of less mind-boggling thinks than the meaning of life (other than 42 and cheese) on his bad days. He pondered the meaning of life on his good days, but House never had a good day, just slightly-less-horrible days and almost-not-bad-but-still-bad-enough-to-bitch-about days. For instance, today, House was thinking of nothing more than Vicodin.
The hard white pills, the mini-Godsends he devoured each day; he hated then as much as he loved them. They reminded him that he was a cripple every time he swallowed one, almost taunting him with the knowledge that he would limp and walk with a cane until he died. But then again, the same, small pills relieved him of pain, gave him back his ability to function, to do his job, made him want to keep going, as if enough pills would cure him of his curse.
Kind of like Wilson, he mused with a small grin. Ah, Wilson, boy wonder oncologist. Smart, handsome, respected, well-liked, and House's only friend. Wilson was the one constant in House's life aside from pain. A smile from the young doctor, a comforting hand on the shoulder, made the difference between the horrible days and the days when House bitched just to bitch. It was his friend's silently offered heart that made House keep popping pills, because if he was pain-free, he found that he could focus on the little things better, like how dearly he clung to Wilson's steady friendship. House bit his lower lip to keep from laughing out-loud.
"It really is the little things that matter." He murmured, trying not to snicker at how romantic he sounded.
"I'd have to agree with you on that one, House." Said his companion, quiet and strong beside him. They fell in to step walking down the deserted hallway of the hospital as they made their way to the parking lot. Wilson wouldn't go home to Julie that night, but would find comfort in the fact that he was so used to House's couch, it didn't feel that lumpy. And, plagued by his usual insomnia, House would watch his friend sleep and realize once more that the little things made the biggest difference.