My first House MD fic ever: The pairing is House and Wilson, Strong friendship...
It's pretty dramatic and depressing 'cause that how I felt back then.
It's about House's past and it's pretty OC and sometimes looks Hilson-ish... might re-write the chapters I got don't like...
The Piano.
He was playing again.
It was close to midnight. The hospital auditorium was completely deserted; he always played when he thought no one would hear it.
Audiences always came with opinions, and he honestly couldn’t care less about those.
And that showed in his appearance, but not in his play.
Wilson cautiously walked in; on his toes, as if not to wake a sleeping child.
He leaned casually against the wall, and let his gaze drift towards house’ remarkably still figure: facial expression totally blank.
His تیز رو, سوئفٹ fingers seemed detached from the rest of his body as they slid across the keyboard with an almost frightening ease.
A calm, relaxing tune chiming from his instrument. Maybe he needed that and it did work on Wilson: drifting of into long gone childhood memories, only to snap out of it when the tempo suddenly quickened. Frustration leaking out from the lowest keys to the now nearly overheated snares.
“House?” Something was off.
Though Wilson was downright overwhelmed سے طرف کی the power of the chords and riffs, House himself barely realized what he was doing… he wasn’t consciously playing this, in fact: Wilson dared to think that this was pre-infarction Gregory playing. But Gregory was humble, emotional; House somewhere behind his indifferent mask. A mask he only took of at the most desperate of times… Gregory was House torn apart.
Who had done the tearing this time?
“House! It’s already midnight, and if آپ want a ride ہوم آپ should stop now.”
That got a reaction: House silently removed his sore fingers from the battered keyboard and resumed his blank staring.
Wilson didn’t really know what to do… it was hard enough to get straight جوابات about his feelings when House wasn’t thrown off like this. He settled for reading him; like only Wilson could:
***
Everyone has lyrics;
The first word written when you’re born: a name, your name.
The rest is written as آپ go to life: an endless verse of thousands of words.
Then you’ll die:
And as people stand سے طرف کی your graveside, they’ll hear your song: آپ singing it to them.
Every word that sticks is an action that mattered, maybe only to them.
And each man that visits آپ will write their own chorus to a verse they see as you.
The murdered will not be muted; their song plays louder for آپ to notice.
The muted will not be silent, they’ll sing with their دل for the deaf man to hear.
And as we all lay there, our songs will reveal the humanity in all of us… even House.
James Wilson was blessed with the gift to read the lyrics, find the humanity in everyone.
The humanity in House was hard to discover for those who only saw the rough exterior, but if آپ read the lyrics you’d see.
Wilson could keep on recognizing him as a human being, someone’s son and his best friend…
Therefore he stuck around where everybody else would run away never to return again.
He always would, if only to annoy House with the fact that he couldn’t be shooed off with an insult.
***
Finally, House looked at him, still silent.
“What happened?” Wilson drew closer and sat اگلے to House on the piano-bench, casually draping his arm around House’ shoulder.
Surprised that House didn’t throw him a deadly glare - for that was his common reaction for signs of affection from Wilson. – Wilson continued:
“Talk to me, House.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Ok, want a ride home?”
“whatever…” House’ need for human company had hit an all time low tonight, but he got into Wilson’s car anyway.
TBC…
Please Comment!
It's pretty dramatic and depressing 'cause that how I felt back then.
It's about House's past and it's pretty OC and sometimes looks Hilson-ish... might re-write the chapters I got don't like...
The Piano.
He was playing again.
It was close to midnight. The hospital auditorium was completely deserted; he always played when he thought no one would hear it.
Audiences always came with opinions, and he honestly couldn’t care less about those.
And that showed in his appearance, but not in his play.
Wilson cautiously walked in; on his toes, as if not to wake a sleeping child.
He leaned casually against the wall, and let his gaze drift towards house’ remarkably still figure: facial expression totally blank.
His تیز رو, سوئفٹ fingers seemed detached from the rest of his body as they slid across the keyboard with an almost frightening ease.
A calm, relaxing tune chiming from his instrument. Maybe he needed that and it did work on Wilson: drifting of into long gone childhood memories, only to snap out of it when the tempo suddenly quickened. Frustration leaking out from the lowest keys to the now nearly overheated snares.
“House?” Something was off.
Though Wilson was downright overwhelmed سے طرف کی the power of the chords and riffs, House himself barely realized what he was doing… he wasn’t consciously playing this, in fact: Wilson dared to think that this was pre-infarction Gregory playing. But Gregory was humble, emotional; House somewhere behind his indifferent mask. A mask he only took of at the most desperate of times… Gregory was House torn apart.
Who had done the tearing this time?
“House! It’s already midnight, and if آپ want a ride ہوم آپ should stop now.”
That got a reaction: House silently removed his sore fingers from the battered keyboard and resumed his blank staring.
Wilson didn’t really know what to do… it was hard enough to get straight جوابات about his feelings when House wasn’t thrown off like this. He settled for reading him; like only Wilson could:
***
Everyone has lyrics;
The first word written when you’re born: a name, your name.
The rest is written as آپ go to life: an endless verse of thousands of words.
Then you’ll die:
And as people stand سے طرف کی your graveside, they’ll hear your song: آپ singing it to them.
Every word that sticks is an action that mattered, maybe only to them.
And each man that visits آپ will write their own chorus to a verse they see as you.
The murdered will not be muted; their song plays louder for آپ to notice.
The muted will not be silent, they’ll sing with their دل for the deaf man to hear.
And as we all lay there, our songs will reveal the humanity in all of us… even House.
James Wilson was blessed with the gift to read the lyrics, find the humanity in everyone.
The humanity in House was hard to discover for those who only saw the rough exterior, but if آپ read the lyrics you’d see.
Wilson could keep on recognizing him as a human being, someone’s son and his best friend…
Therefore he stuck around where everybody else would run away never to return again.
He always would, if only to annoy House with the fact that he couldn’t be shooed off with an insult.
***
Finally, House looked at him, still silent.
“What happened?” Wilson drew closer and sat اگلے to House on the piano-bench, casually draping his arm around House’ shoulder.
Surprised that House didn’t throw him a deadly glare - for that was his common reaction for signs of affection from Wilson. – Wilson continued:
“Talk to me, House.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Ok, want a ride home?”
“whatever…” House’ need for human company had hit an all time low tonight, but he got into Wilson’s car anyway.
TBC…
Please Comment!
