FF: Some Devil
Title: Some Devil
Author: Ellie
Pairing: Mentions of past House/Stacy, Gen
Rating: PG13
Summary: “Too drunk and still drinking…” Dave Matthews, ‘Some Devil’
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The glass of Jameson’s glowed in the dim light, cut facets of glass and rippling liquid refracting every ray available. Occasionally the glass shuddered a few centimeters along the closed lid of the reverberating piano, until the roiling blues lost its bass harmony for a moment, and another swig was knocked back.
All too soon, the piece finished with an overdramatic flourish, sending the empty glass skittering nearly to the edge. House caught it with practiced reflexes, refilling from the nearby bottle, gulping, and launching into another tune.
Nights like this made him wish that he’d forgone medicine and made a deal like Robert Johnson’s. His soul was only causing him pain, the mental exacerbating the physical. He could have sold it, alleviated half his problems and spent his life happily pounding away in smoky piano bars.
Hell, it might have solved all his problems. If he’d never been a doctor, he might never have met Stacy, might never have had an infarction, might not have cared if he lost the leg. A missing leg would have only added to the allure of a soulless pianist.
Single handed, he fiddled with the opening bars of “Cross Road Blues,” downing half the whisky in one swallow. He knew that most of the greats had played under the influence, and a heady mix of Vicodin, alcohol, and pain never hurt his performance, either.
Perhaps he should have mixed such a cocktail before his performance with Stacy, he thought. It might have turned off his troubled brain enough to allow his instincts to take over, to run far away from what he knew was a very bad idea. But he’d-they’d-done wrong, and was smart enough to walk away before he was hurt worse than before.
Was that even possible? He pondered as he sipped again at the whisky, slowly, savoring. His world had imploded when she’d left before; if Cuddy hadn’t been riding him every step of the way he would have slunk away to be a one-legged pianist in a dive somewhere, wound up dead in the gutter. Sometimes he wondered if that wouldn’t have been a better option.
Less painful, certainly. But the pain meant he still felt something, so he refilled his glass once more, attempting to dull it down to nothing. The warmth of the alcohol did little to chase away the chill inside him, the icy shiver of a mortally wounded, closeted romantic. Gruff exterior and razored sarcasm kept him from being often wounded, but when a blow penetrated the armor, the wound did not easily heal. This wound had been festering for far too long.
Alcohol has antiseptic properties, he thought, and wondered if there were enough bottles in the world to disinfect this wound.
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End
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Author: Ellie
Pairing: Mentions of past House/Stacy, Gen
Rating: PG13
Summary: “Too drunk and still drinking…” Dave Matthews, ‘Some Devil’
****
The glass of Jameson’s glowed in the dim light, cut facets of glass and rippling liquid refracting every ray available. Occasionally the glass shuddered a few centimeters along the closed lid of the reverberating piano, until the roiling blues lost its bass harmony for a moment, and another swig was knocked back.
All too soon, the piece finished with an overdramatic flourish, sending the empty glass skittering nearly to the edge. House caught it with practiced reflexes, refilling from the nearby bottle, gulping, and launching into another tune.
Nights like this made him wish that he’d forgone medicine and made a deal like Robert Johnson’s. His soul was only causing him pain, the mental exacerbating the physical. He could have sold it, alleviated half his problems and spent his life happily pounding away in smoky piano bars.
Hell, it might have solved all his problems. If he’d never been a doctor, he might never have met Stacy, might never have had an infarction, might not have cared if he lost the leg. A missing leg would have only added to the allure of a soulless pianist.
Single handed, he fiddled with the opening bars of “Cross Road Blues,” downing half the whisky in one swallow. He knew that most of the greats had played under the influence, and a heady mix of Vicodin, alcohol, and pain never hurt his performance, either.
Perhaps he should have mixed such a cocktail before his performance with Stacy, he thought. It might have turned off his troubled brain enough to allow his instincts to take over, to run far away from what he knew was a very bad idea. But he’d-they’d-done wrong, and was smart enough to walk away before he was hurt worse than before.
Was that even possible? He pondered as he sipped again at the whisky, slowly, savoring. His world had imploded when she’d left before; if Cuddy hadn’t been riding him every step of the way he would have slunk away to be a one-legged pianist in a dive somewhere, wound up dead in the gutter. Sometimes he wondered if that wouldn’t have been a better option.
Less painful, certainly. But the pain meant he still felt something, so he refilled his glass once more, attempting to dull it down to nothing. The warmth of the alcohol did little to chase away the chill inside him, the icy shiver of a mortally wounded, closeted romantic. Gruff exterior and razored sarcasm kept him from being often wounded, but when a blow penetrated the armor, the wound did not easily heal. This wound had been festering for far too long.
Alcohol has antiseptic properties, he thought, and wondered if there were enough bottles in the world to disinfect this wound.
****
End
****