(no subject)
TITLE: Piano Man (1/1)
AUTHOR: animagiblender AKA me
PAIRING: House/Wilson friendship, House/Stacy (very brief, for those of you who don't like that), primarily House/Piano...it'll make sense if you read it
RATING:PG
WARNINGS: Alcohol use, brief mention of sex, first person POV for a piano, Mild spoilers for Skin Deep in the last paragraph
SUMMARY:I wish I could say I spotted him from afar and the love affair was sparked, but the truth of the matter was I almost missed him until he stepped up to me and plucked out a few notes confidently.
DISCLAIMER:I don't own House MD or any character associated with said television show, they all belong to David Shore. I also didn't think up the inanimate object thing. I once read fanfic from the POV of a toilet.
NOTES: This is written in the first person point-of-view of House's piano. It's a sort of character study with a twist. I too think I've one the fandom award on weirdness on this one...Thanks to aheartfulofyou for beta-ing.
I wish I could say I spotted him from afar and the love affair was sparked, but the truth of the matter was I almost missed him until he stepped up to me and plucked out a few notes confidently. He was indifferent to the sales rep who gave him the usual facts, talked me up to him while at the same time trying to steer him over to a lesser model. The sales rep read his rumpled clothes and unkempt appearance as a sign of someone trying out a piano bigger then he could afford, and tried to sell him an upright model which would have a life of wrong notes and loose pedals ahead of it, despite how ‘economically sound’ an investment it was at the moment.
I’ve had better players play me; a few virtuosos had strolled in looking for a new pet and immediately launched into a pompous version of an obscure piece of classical music. I’ve also had far worse players play me; spoiled, rich, new piano students, dragged in by their parents and forced to sit down and perform a dismal version of Yankee Doodle Dandy. The parents would invariably want to see a different model, claiming that I was out of tune. I wasn’t out of tune, their kid was just worthless.
This guy’s impromptu performance stood out, however. It wasn’t just the way he segued smoothly through songs, test driving me with a showing of the classical, the modern and every style from show tunes to rock and roll. No, the special thing about him was the quiet reverence he had for me, the almost gentle way he pressed down the keys. That wasn’t something you found with every player.
I, like the salesman, still didn’t think he could afford me, and it came as a bit of surprise to both of us when he wrote a check with lots of flourish and began talking about when delivery could be made. I should confess I half expected the check to bounce, and was surprised when clumsy delivery buffoons loaded me up and brought me to my new home. I noted with some approval that he yelled angrily at my rough treatment at the hands of the deliverymen and he didn’t tip them as much as he could have.
I had pinned the guy as the tortured artist type, but his particular artistry surprised me; medicine. Pretty soon I was covered in X-rays and patient files, side-by-side with the sheet music he never looked at and the glass of whisky he used to wash it all down with.
I came to find out his name was Greg or House, depending on who you listened to. He wasn’t tidy, but he was concise. He treated his things nicely, but he wasn’t into extravagance. The most expensive things he bought were the things that made him happy; a nice Bed, a nice Chair, a cool Game Console, an expensive Stereo. The general consensus of his household items was that he was a fair-to-good owner, although his Toasters had an unfortunate habit of being destroyed, and his Iron was ferociously under-used.
He didn’t sleep. Well, that’s a generalization. I’m sure he slept, the Bed tells me so, but he didn’t sleep a lot. Many a restless night was spent as he poked and prodded at me, gazing intently at me, hoping to find the answers in my ivory keys. I got the most play at night. He’d lay down a pile of medical papers on top of me after reading for hours on the couch and then pick something sad and yet beautiful and play until he found his answers and then start the whole thing again.
A lot of people didn’t like him. He didn’t like a lot of people. A few people came and went in his life but some managed to make an impression. There was a dark haired, dark eyed man named Wilson or Jimmy with lips and cheek bones that could have made him a woman. His favorite songs were piano versions of old Clapton tunes, but when he got really drunk he’d request something by Elton John.
Sometimes Wilson or Jimmy was sad, sometimes he was happy, most times he came bearing movies and Chinese, and by the time Greg or House got around to me his fingers smelt like won-tons and were sticky with rice. Sometimes they fought, sometimes they talked, and sometimes they talked about other things while pointedly avoiding one subject or another usually involving Wives or Pills.
There was another person, Stacy or Baby or Darling or whatever came out of his mouth first. He liked playing songs for her, soft lilting pieces on lazy Sundays that led to silky kisses and other activities that are more under the Bed’s realm of knowledge. She liked him and he liked her, and she never failed to cause him to play a cheesy romantic piece with more beauty and meaning then even the composer could instill in it.
They had fights when the Cane and the Pills came along. He hated the Cane and the Pills and he relied on the Cane and the Pills, and the Cane and the Pills seemed to drive them apart. He entrusted me with all the secrets he couldn’t tell her, and when she left he composed his sorrows into endless nights of whisky and music, which he shared with me alone.
Things changed with the Cane, though people still came and went, Chinese takeout was still bought and devoured, and cutting edge Game Consoles were still purchased and used. He needed the Cane and the Pills, but he needed me in a different way. He would still pile endless stacks of paper on to me and search for the answers between the notes. I knew his secrets.
And when he spread out the Pills on my surface, gazing at them with a mixture of despair and finality, after bungling the last few notes of a Bach piece, I could have told him, if he’d asked, that I would always be there for him.
AUTHOR: animagiblender AKA me
PAIRING: House/Wilson friendship, House/Stacy (very brief, for those of you who don't like that), primarily House/Piano...it'll make sense if you read it
RATING:PG
WARNINGS: Alcohol use, brief mention of sex, first person POV for a piano, Mild spoilers for Skin Deep in the last paragraph
SUMMARY:I wish I could say I spotted him from afar and the love affair was sparked, but the truth of the matter was I almost missed him until he stepped up to me and plucked out a few notes confidently.
DISCLAIMER:I don't own House MD or any character associated with said television show, they all belong to David Shore. I also didn't think up the inanimate object thing. I once read fanfic from the POV of a toilet.
NOTES: This is written in the first person point-of-view of House's piano. It's a sort of character study with a twist. I too think I've one the fandom award on weirdness on this one...Thanks to aheartfulofyou for beta-ing.
I wish I could say I spotted him from afar and the love affair was sparked, but the truth of the matter was I almost missed him until he stepped up to me and plucked out a few notes confidently. He was indifferent to the sales rep who gave him the usual facts, talked me up to him while at the same time trying to steer him over to a lesser model. The sales rep read his rumpled clothes and unkempt appearance as a sign of someone trying out a piano bigger then he could afford, and tried to sell him an upright model which would have a life of wrong notes and loose pedals ahead of it, despite how ‘economically sound’ an investment it was at the moment.
I’ve had better players play me; a few virtuosos had strolled in looking for a new pet and immediately launched into a pompous version of an obscure piece of classical music. I’ve also had far worse players play me; spoiled, rich, new piano students, dragged in by their parents and forced to sit down and perform a dismal version of Yankee Doodle Dandy. The parents would invariably want to see a different model, claiming that I was out of tune. I wasn’t out of tune, their kid was just worthless.
This guy’s impromptu performance stood out, however. It wasn’t just the way he segued smoothly through songs, test driving me with a showing of the classical, the modern and every style from show tunes to rock and roll. No, the special thing about him was the quiet reverence he had for me, the almost gentle way he pressed down the keys. That wasn’t something you found with every player.
I, like the salesman, still didn’t think he could afford me, and it came as a bit of surprise to both of us when he wrote a check with lots of flourish and began talking about when delivery could be made. I should confess I half expected the check to bounce, and was surprised when clumsy delivery buffoons loaded me up and brought me to my new home. I noted with some approval that he yelled angrily at my rough treatment at the hands of the deliverymen and he didn’t tip them as much as he could have.
I had pinned the guy as the tortured artist type, but his particular artistry surprised me; medicine. Pretty soon I was covered in X-rays and patient files, side-by-side with the sheet music he never looked at and the glass of whisky he used to wash it all down with.
I came to find out his name was Greg or House, depending on who you listened to. He wasn’t tidy, but he was concise. He treated his things nicely, but he wasn’t into extravagance. The most expensive things he bought were the things that made him happy; a nice Bed, a nice Chair, a cool Game Console, an expensive Stereo. The general consensus of his household items was that he was a fair-to-good owner, although his Toasters had an unfortunate habit of being destroyed, and his Iron was ferociously under-used.
He didn’t sleep. Well, that’s a generalization. I’m sure he slept, the Bed tells me so, but he didn’t sleep a lot. Many a restless night was spent as he poked and prodded at me, gazing intently at me, hoping to find the answers in my ivory keys. I got the most play at night. He’d lay down a pile of medical papers on top of me after reading for hours on the couch and then pick something sad and yet beautiful and play until he found his answers and then start the whole thing again.
A lot of people didn’t like him. He didn’t like a lot of people. A few people came and went in his life but some managed to make an impression. There was a dark haired, dark eyed man named Wilson or Jimmy with lips and cheek bones that could have made him a woman. His favorite songs were piano versions of old Clapton tunes, but when he got really drunk he’d request something by Elton John.
Sometimes Wilson or Jimmy was sad, sometimes he was happy, most times he came bearing movies and Chinese, and by the time Greg or House got around to me his fingers smelt like won-tons and were sticky with rice. Sometimes they fought, sometimes they talked, and sometimes they talked about other things while pointedly avoiding one subject or another usually involving Wives or Pills.
There was another person, Stacy or Baby or Darling or whatever came out of his mouth first. He liked playing songs for her, soft lilting pieces on lazy Sundays that led to silky kisses and other activities that are more under the Bed’s realm of knowledge. She liked him and he liked her, and she never failed to cause him to play a cheesy romantic piece with more beauty and meaning then even the composer could instill in it.
They had fights when the Cane and the Pills came along. He hated the Cane and the Pills and he relied on the Cane and the Pills, and the Cane and the Pills seemed to drive them apart. He entrusted me with all the secrets he couldn’t tell her, and when she left he composed his sorrows into endless nights of whisky and music, which he shared with me alone.
Things changed with the Cane, though people still came and went, Chinese takeout was still bought and devoured, and cutting edge Game Consoles were still purchased and used. He needed the Cane and the Pills, but he needed me in a different way. He would still pile endless stacks of paper on to me and search for the answers between the notes. I knew his secrets.
And when he spread out the Pills on my surface, gazing at them with a mixture of despair and finality, after bungling the last few notes of a Bach piece, I could have told him, if he’d asked, that I would always be there for him.