AUTHOR: Captain Devine
SUMMARY: House plays his piano, for more reasons than one.
PAIRINGS: Wilson/House
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
A/N: I've decided to start my stories/oneshots with these headings. Spent most of my day watching S1 eps. My GOD, there's so much H/W context there. Please review.
Wilson loved it when House played his piano. He especially loved it when he improvised. He loved to watch the man's long fingers circulate around the keyboard, knowing just what key to hit. Music had always fascinated Wilson, but he'd never gotten around to learning it. So when he came upon the one man that fascinated him most playing his piano, he was engrossed in the moment.
Wilson had moved back in with House a few weeks ago, finally kicked out of the hotel he'd been in for the past couple of months. He was reluctant to barge back into the life of the most antisocial man he knew, but House was his only refuge.
And everyday when Wilson came home, carrying a bag of groceries and a briefcase full of folders, feeling more like a tired husband than a best friend, he could come across House, hopped up on six Vicodin and a shotglass of scotch, composing his day through song.
And suddenly the events of his day had no purpose leaving Wilson's mouth.
Wilson was one of the few people who knew how House's mind worked, how he processed life. But each time Wilson saw House before his piano, he was at a loss. How could such a careless, brilliant ass create something so beautiful with just his creativity and his hands?
Wilson would listen to the notes floating through the air as he cooked, after they ate, and when he reviewed his patient files after dinner. It was soothing; House wasn't annoying him and the music was beautiful, almost tranquil.
And there was one song House always played. One tune he'd created, one melody that made Wilson smile. Each day he'd improvise endings for it, and it became Wilson's favourite part of the day. He felt like a child, waiting to see what Daddy had brought home for him from his trip.
And House knew Wilson loved it when he played his piano. He knew that Wilson loved it when he created his melodic representations of his mood. It was how he talked about his day. Instead of a conversation over dinner, he'd play out his feelings on the keyboard and Wilson would know how he was doing. It was exactly what they wanted, House didn't have to talk, and Wilson didn't have to ask.
And each time he created an ending for the song, he'd watch from the corner of his eye, seeing how Wilson would react to how his day went. He'd never admit it out loud, or even in song, but he only made up these songs to see Wilson smile. He only improvised to make him happy.
And after the latest conclusion of the song, the corner of Wilson's mouth curled upward and he walked over to House. He slid his arms around the man's middle and put his lips to his cheek. "Glad you had a nice day," he said, the improv session telling him all he ever wanted to know.
Review, please.