Title: Subito Libero
Author: tiflissa
Fandom: House
Rating: K+
Summary: She remembered that once upon a time, she was GOOD at something other than medicine.
Disclaimer: If I owned House, the writers would be acquainted with a little thing I like to call "continuity". Unfortunately, I don't own House. (is depressed)
Name of Beta: Mikki13 – fantastic beta, awesome friend, and charbroiler of cheerleaders! ;)
A/N: Written for starhawk2005 at LJ. Congratulations! (throws confetti) I sincerely wish all the best for your marriage! I was given the prompt of a picture of a fiddle, soooo, here's your fic! There's no smut, but I hope you like it anyway:D
Subito: Italian: suddenly
Libero: Italian: free, freely
She used to play, once.
It was a long time ago, before medical school and husbands and cancer.
The fiddle had been put away the same day her baby brother died. Without him there to clap and smile and enjoy it, the instrument seemed pointless. Still, she never forgot how it felt to play.
She remembered the placement of her fingers on the strings to play his favorite tune. She remembered the feel of the vibration under her fingers as the bow slid across the strings. She remembered composing her own song, just for her little brother.
She remembered that once upon a time, she was GOOD at something other than medicine.
It hadn't been played since the funeral. It was the last thing she could do for him.
Still, she kept it. Why, she wasn't entirely certain. It didn't really matter. What mattered was that she took care of it, held on to it. Just like she held on to the rest of her memories; the ones that didn't have a physical representation.
Regularly, the instrument was taken for cleaning. She didn't want this memory to fade into nothing but dust. The man at the shop always remarked on what a beautiful fiddle it was, and she agreed. She didn't bother to tell him that she never played it anymore.
Her first mistake was made at the hospital.
It started out innocently enough; another mundane conversation held behind glass walls. Foreman talked about taking his girlfriend to see a performance by local string musicians, and she was interested.
She asked what the play list was; he wasn't sure, but he thought Violin Concerto in D Major was on the program. He knew that he saw Tchaikovsky listed as the composer.
Surprised, she carelessly remarked on what a difficult piece it is to play.
It was inevitable that House arrived in time to hear her comment. His eyebrow raised and he stared at her, saying nothing with his voice, but expressing his curiosity with his eyes.
She dropped her gaze to the table, inwardly cursing herself for her slip.
Foreman and Chase noticed nothing, as usual. They were sent off to run tests (Foreman) and do House's clinic hours (Chase), leaving only the two of them.
The atmosphere suddenly threatened to suffocate her, and she stood to leave. Only a few more steps, she thought, and she'd be free of his gaze. His cane squelched her hopes of freedom as it blocked her path (again).
He made assumptions about her knowledge of music, and she evaded. As usual. Their pattern was set in granite, a dance they did with words instead of feet, and there was no end to this; the ultimate Unfinished Symphony.
She felt his eyes follow her down the hallway, and she cursed the architect who thought glass walls in a hospital were a wonderful idea.
Her second mistake occurred that same day. She decided that the God she didn't believe in must have it in for her.
Again, it started out normally enough. She was running gels in the Pathology Lab, the darkness comforting to her. Unfortunately, the comfort was sucked from the room with the thump-step that alerted her to her boss's presence.
She was used to this; he visited her hideout regularly, intent to figure out the puzzle he deemed her to be. She was used to keeping her eyes trained on the centrifuge as he stood behind her, his warmth enveloping her back.
As much as she wanted to lean toward him, she knew it would make things so much worse.
He was strangely silent, the tapping of his cane on the floor the only auditory sign of his presence. She waited.
Finally, he asked her if she plays.
"Play what? Play video games? Baseball?"
He rolled his eyes, as expected, but didn't answer her directly. After a few more moments of staring, he glanced at the floor. "So which is it? Cello? Violin – or fiddle, if you prefer? Viola?"
When he said fiddle, she flinched (it didn't matter that she tried not to), and he had his answer.
Her second mistake.
Surprisingly, nothing was mentioned after that.
Having long been used to his ways of operating without anesthetic, she expected to hear mockery and insults and condemnation for things he thought he knew.
He hadn't said a word to her that had anything to do with anything other than work in two weeks. She was waiting for the other shoe to drop, as she knew it must.
It was who he was, and she both accepted and hated it.
She was finally home after a long day. Their patient had died; by the time they figured out what the illness was, it had been too late. Foreman and Chase had invited her to go out for drinks, intent on drowning their sorrows through the always convenient means of alcohol. She'd refused, wanting to sit at home and try to forget the patient's – Samantha's – last moments.
Nothing was working. A glass of wine sat untouched on the coffee table, and a book lay next to it. She sat on the sofa, staring at empty space, drained beyond all belief.
She jumped when she heard the knocking at her door. It sounded like wood on wood, and she knew who it was. She briefly considered ignoring the noise altogether, but then realized she didn't have a choice. She had to open the door, knowing very well that if she didn't, he'd keep knocking all night.
Wearily, she opened the door and stared at him. "What do you want? I'm not in the mood to play any of your games tonight."
His impossibly blue gaze swept over her, taking in her tired posture and the hand clenching the door. "No? I've got some fun ones. There's one involving a whip and – "
"House."
"Fine. You don't have to play my games tonight. How about playing this instead?"
She looked down and saw the fiddle case he carried. It was amazing how just the sight of that case in her boss's hands caused her to shake. She had known it was coming, known that he would figure her out. He was, after all, a world-renowned diagnostician.
He grew impatient. Ignoring her shaking hands and pale face, he reminded her that he was a cripple and would she let him sit down?
In her living room, he set the fiddle case on a nearby chair and swept his gaze around her home. This was the first time he'd been inside, and he intended to make the most of it.
She didn't know what to do. "What do you want from me?"
"Didn't I make myself clear? You play the fiddle. I want you to play now. Hence, the fiddle I brought with me." It was as if he was explaining to a young child how to tie a shoe.
Still shaken, she answered with the only word she knew how. "Played."
"You're going to argue past tense with me? I know you haven't forgotten how. No musician does, not if it's important to them."
For some reason she herself didn't understand, she was suddenly angry with him. "And what makes you think you know what's important to me? Don't presume to know me, just because you make a few observations of my behavior."
Her face, once pale, was now flushed with emotion. He once again found himself fascinated with her. "I know that you get attached to people far too much. I know you were married once, and I know he died. I know you feel guilty for things that aren't your fault. I know you play the fiddle. I know you stopped playing for some reason. And I know you'll play again." The words he spoke would have sounded soft and gentle from anyone else's mouth. Because this was House however, they were gruff and clinical, void of emotion.
She crossed her arms and switched her gaze from him to the fiddle resting innocently on the chair. "How do you know?" she asked him, genuinely curious.
"Because it's important to you. So important that you keep it from everyone, and you flinch when someone finds out." He gave her a knowing look, and she deflated slightly.
It wouldn't be easy, she knew. Yet, maybe it would help her forget the death that seemed to surround her on a daily basis. Straightening, she fixed her eyes on him, daring him to contradict her. "Fine. But if I play, I'm using my own instrument."
He seemed amused at her insistence. "I don't recall saying you couldn't. This was only a backup plan." He waved a hand at the one on the chair.
She nodded and left the room, glancing back once to see that he'd made himself comfortable on her sofa. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she continued to her bedroom.
The case was resting in the corner, and she opened it gently, lifting it out. She took a moment to relish the familiar feel of it in her hands. The smoothness of the wood brushing her fingertips sent a ripple of joy through her, familiar and yet painful.
He was right; she never forgot how to play. Though it had been years since she'd touched the instrument for anything other than cleaning and care, she would run scales in her mind. It was almost like riding a bike, she thought with a somewhat hysterical laugh.
Taking a deep breath, she headed back to the living room.
She saw that he had abandoned his spot on the sofa and had begun poking through her things. She wasn't surprised; in reality, she'd have been surprised if he'd left her things alone.
At her entrance, he quickly glanced at the fiddle in her hands and made only one remark. "Your books are boring."
"Thank you," she responded dryly, a bit thankful for his throw-away humor at the moment. It was helping her relax, in an odd way.
"Unless you have the good stuff in your bedroom." He waggled his eyebrows and she fought not to snort.
"Sorry to disappoint you, but the only book I have in my bedroom is hardly erotic."
He pouted, then looked at her seriously. "Ready?"
Another deep breath. "No. If you want to hear me play, there are rules." She ignored the rolling of his eyes and continued. "You wait until I'm finished to say anything. When you do say something, don't you dare criticize me. For anything. Otherwise, so help me, you'll find yourself needing a hell of a lot more Vicodin than you take now. And you don't tell anyone about this. Not even Wilson."
"Yeah, fine, whatever. Are you going to play or stand there yakking at me all night? Because I have this leg – "
His wisecrack was cut off by the sound of music. He sat, almost stunned by the beauty and skill with which she played the fiddle. She drifted flawlessly from one song to the next, and he was transfixed by the changes in her as she played.
She could have wept with those first notes, the emotion almost overwhelming. As she played however, she was overtaken by a sort of peace, and her expression became content. She certainly hadn't forgotten how good it felt to play, but she realized for the first time that the memory couldn't compare to the reality. She found herself (finally) letting go.
When she stopped, the silence in the room was virtually filled with a plethora of unsaid words and thoughts. He locked his gaze on hers, a thousand emotions passing between the two damaged people. He was surprised at the expression reflected on her face. For the first time since he'd met her, she radiated an aura of peace.
He spoke when the silence finally became too heavy. "I didn't recognize the last piece you played."
Startled, she thought back to that last piece. Unknowingly, she'd played her own composition – the song for her brother. "You wouldn't. You're the only one that's heard it in fifteen years."
He understood the statement, and his eyes grew a bit wider. "Ah." The silence descended again, and he shifted slightly. "Nice." For once the word was spoken without any trace of sarcasm or derision.
She smiled now, knowing that from House, that was the highest compliment that could be received. "Thanks." They both knew she was talking about more than just his praise.
Having received what he came for, he hoisted himself off the sofa and headed for the door, grabbing the unused fiddle from the chair. At the last moment, he turned back. "You should play more often. Know any duets with piano?"
She gave a genuine laugh, which made his heart do unpleasant things inside his chest. "Out."
He graced her with a genuine half-smile in return, and left.
Knowing that she had somehow made a small dent in the armor in which he wrapped himself, the smile lingered upon her face. She had never dreamed that this instrument, which had for so long been a source of pain, would suddenly become the cause of hope.
Lifting the fiddle to her shoulder, she played once again - this time, for herself.
Halfway down the hall, House listened to the sound of the music, and smiled. He'd only been half-joking about the duets.
END
A/N 2: Feedback is craved. I will dance and frolic in any and all reviews!