Title: The Piano (1/8)
Author: logastellus
Rating: R, to be on the safe side.
Disclaimers: I only wish I had some claim to House, Wilson, and the other denizens of PPTH.  My eternal adoration to David Shore and the writers who bring these characters to life each week.
Thanks: to Meldraw for your insight and suggestions, and to extrabitter, pwcorgigirl, namasteyoga, and the many other writers whose fanfic has enthralled and inspired me.



Wilson glances at the piano as he returns from the kitchen with two more beers.  The keyboard cover is closed, but no dust sullies the polished wood.  It has been played recently, then, or at least it has been cared for.

Star Trek II is on TV, and House’s favorite line is coming up.  Wilson hands over a bottle just in time for it to be brandished dramatically at the screen. 

“Khaaannnn!”  House smiles with satisfaction.  “Now there’s a captain.  James T. knew how to hold a grudge, unlike the rest of those conciliatory pansies Starfleet put in charge of ships.”

A long swallow of lager prefaces the sort of abrupt subject change Wilson long ago became accustomed to.  “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with that new hematologist.”

Wilson rolls his eyes.  He knew House would bring this up sooner or later.  “We work together.  So what?”

House narrows his eyes skeptically, which has the effect of turning up the intensity of his blue gaze — a fact of which he is almost certainly aware.   “So… there’s no particular reason for the oncology nurses to giggle as fetchingly as they do when she ‘drops by’ for a consult?”  The scare quotes are audible.  “Which, by the way, she seems to do quite often.”

“Some doctors actually do answer their consult pages, you know.  Morgen’s a damn good hematologist, and she’s double-boarded in infectious disease to boot.  Gee, I can’t think of any reason she might be interested in anything in oncology, like say, leukemia patients with crappy immune systems.”

“You had lunch with her twice last week.  Lots of cancer patients in the cafeteria?”

“It’s not like that!  She’s…”

“Nice?  Should I be on the lookout for the green tie?”

“…a friend,” Wilson finishes, firmly.  “She’s a friend.”

House leans back, only the slight widening of his eyes giving a bare hint that the answer might have been unexpected.  He regards Wilson for a long moment, then turns his attention back to the television.


Wilson carefully hides his sigh of relief.  House has never been less than prickly, but these days his friend seems all jagged edges, sharp enough to draw blood from anyone who gets too close.   His marriage is an uncomfortable subject at the best of times, but between Julie’s icy silences and House’s willingness to cross the line between blunt and cruel… well, this didn’t get within miles of “the best of times.” 

They watch the movie for awhile, House wisecracking like he’s narrating for Mystery Science Theater 3000.  Wilson responds out of habit, but his heart isn’t really in it.  He feels tired.  Tired of fighting with Julie, tired of wondering why he can’t keep a relationship together, tired of watching Greg kill himself by inches.

His gaze wanders, comes to rest on graceful fingers wrapped casually around a sweating beer bottle.  He closes his eyes, and wonders how long it has been since House played.  Wilson tries to think, can’t remember hearing the piano since … mid-spring, since House treated Mark Warner.  His mind idles around the problem.  It should tell him something, he knows.  The silence.  It matters, maybe, if the silence is just for him.  He doesn’t know if it is better to hope so, or not. 

Has Greg played at all?  Or has he just sat on the bench with his soft cotton cloths and wiped the dust from each key?  Wilson watched him do it once.  Fifty-two white keys, each one receiving a separate stroke of the lightly dampened cloth.  Then a new cloth, thirty-six times over the black keys.  Or has the keyboard cover not been lifted at all?  Was it just a quick swipe across the smooth wood that carried away the dust, leaving the keys beneath untouched?    

He wishes he knew, wishes he had enough information for a differential diagnosis.  Of House, or of himself, for that matter.




Wilson blinks wearily as House levers himself off the couch.  Movie credits roll down the television screen.  At the sideboard, House pours himself a scotch and glances at Wilson.

“Want one?”

He starts to say yes, then thinks about the time.  As much as he doesn’t want to go home, waiting will only make it worse.  Julie always wakes up when he comes to bed, always notes the hour. 

“No, I’m going.”

House nods.  “Julie is waiting.”

“Yeah.”  



Chapter 2