Solo in D Minor
Firechild
Rated G
Disclaimer: I own… my Rolaids. And alarmingly few of those at the moment, come to think of it. So unless you want to get paid in peppermint-flavored dust for something that isn't harming anyone, I put forth that suing me will get you nowhere. Of course, there is something to be said for having minty-fresh sinuses, but ya know…
Spoilers: Running Man
Warnings: Saptastic! It's my first (actually-written) Numb3rfic, so please be gentle.
Category: Call it a missing scene….
A/N: I don't tear out my hair over every little detail at the expense of a story, but I do like to have as much accuracy as possible, so let me just say that I'm aware that the song was not written in D minor—I gave this that title for a reason, and I'd imagine that Margaret would have at some point experimented with her piece in a different key.
-----
Long fingers caressed the keys, not tickling but testing, not making love but revisiting the memory of it, movements not quite sure but questing, questioning, as if shyly seeking permission to travel a path long untread. There were off notes, mistakes borne more of underconfidance than of misreading, but the tentative playing lent a certain sorrowful innocence to the music. There was no pretense here, only a son calling on long-forgotten skills to honor his mother, to connect with her, to ask for just a moment in her presence, to find again that certain sense of balance that he'd missed so much since she'd gone. For the moment it didn't matter that he'd always played the prodigal, that his tune had always been rock to her jazz, that he felt he'd been a constant source of frustration for her. All of that retreated into the shadows at the back of his mind as the music became the light, the sweet sound became the breath of something too long absent, the sensation of trembling fingers on cool keys became her gentle touch on his hand, his cheek, his ear, his heart.
He played this way for several minutes, his eyes studying the notes on the page as his mind tried to envision her here with him, sitting beside him on the bench, playing counterpoint or perhaps simply taking him through the gentle waves of the piece with soft voice and patient words; but the image would not come. As much as he missed her, as much as he dreamed of her, as much as he ached for her to be here with him, he couldn't hold on to a vision that would not form. He could imagine her writing the music, imagine her humming softly to herself as the tune ebbed and flowed, imagine her trying different harmonies and rhythms to find what felt right, could even imagine her hiding it all away in some sanctuary where her beloved men could not disturb it, but he could not imagine her sitting here with him as he played it.
He pulled himself out of the bittersweet reverie as he noticed movement in his peripheral vision; when he looked up and saw his father and brother standing in the doorway, listening, the music trailed off and his fingers shied away from the keys.
"I--I'm sorry," he said softly, his voice hesitant and a little hoarse, "I just--it was just here, and I… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…"
Alan ventured into the room, Charlie a few steps behind. "No, no, Donny, it's--it's fine, son, it's just fine."
Charlie seemed reluctant to disturb the odd atmosphere by attempting to speak, and his older brother couldn't quite read his expression. Don felt so humbled in that moment that he wondered why his father did not seem upset with him, why his brother hadn't yet exploded, and if perhaps he couldn't imagine his mother playing by his side because he'd truly violated something sacred by presuming he was worthy to try it. He dropped his hand and his gaze to his lap, feeling very much like a little boy found doing something terrible, and it crossed his mind that he should leave now, that he shouldn't have come in the first place.
Within the space of just a few beats, several incredible things happened--Don felt motion and looked up and to the side to discover that Charlie had perched on the edge of the bench; his eyes began to burn for the first time in more years than he cared to count; and where he'd imagined his mother's touch on his cheek, he now felt another's hand on his shoulder, warm and real and not quite steady.
"Donny, son," his father nearly whispered, "please don't stop. I want to hear you play it; I need to hear you play it. Please?"
Don hesitated for a moment, then, slowly, he raised his hand and laid his fingers over the keys at the measure where he'd stopped, and, trembling even more now, began to pick up the tune again. When he reached the end of the piece, he felt his father squeeze his shoulder, and Don glanced up and back to see Alan nod wordlessly. Don turned back, his gaze pausing on his brother, but Charlie made no move to join him or stop him; the younger man simply sat and gazed at the keys, and then at Don's fingers as they keyed up the song that had been as much a part of Margaret Mann Eppes as her two sons had been.
Don went through the piece again, just as softly but with a bit more confidence, and though his father and brother lent him a tremendous amount of strength and patience, he knew that she must have sounded wonderful when she played this in solitude.
As the last notes faded into silence in the room, Don had a sudden flash--this time he saw her clearly, maybe more clearly than he had for the last several years of her life. In his vision she sat just where he was sitting, playing the same notes, keeping time the same way. In his vision, she was content. She was calm and relaxed.
And she was alone.
It was then that he finally understood; it wasn't that there was something wrong with him, it wasn't that he was damaged or unworthy of claiming his place in her life. For the first time he realized that the reason he couldn't envision her doing this along with him was because, like him, she'd always found herself playing alone, mostly by choice but sometimes not. Like him, she was more relaxed with no one around; like him, she had accepted the loneliness as inevitable. Like him.
He'd never thought that he might be very much like his mother, but he had the distinct feeling that there was more of her in him than he'd dared to guess.
So he finally left the piano when Alan called the brothers for dinner a few minutes later, but when he stepped away from that bench, he left a piece of himself behind--the piece that had been there before he'd come into the world and would be there long after he was gone.
And deep in the night, when the shadows had long since chased him into dreams, he heard the melody again, this time in a different key, and wished that she had known how very much he would have liked to hear her play.
----
the end