Symphony
Disclaimer: House and Wilson aren't mine. Le sigh.
AN: This is actually a rewrite of an ancient not-quite-drabble of mine that goes by the same name. I wanted to fix it up, so here we are. Comments and critique are loved beyond imagination, so go on.
In House's Spartan well-ordered world, he likes to think his performance is a solo act. It's just him and music and his bottle of Vicodin and a smart little Baby Grand.
Misguided accompanists, hungry for higher approval, often try to pry the keys from his deft sure fingers. Playing dumb, he plunks resolutely on; clinging expertly to the rhythms and refrains of his twisted sacred medical music.
And then comes another, and he is strong and skilled and not afraid to bump House along the piano bench when he forgets how to share.
They play, improbably—impossibly--perfect and complex; theme and variation and trading insults over takeout.
The final chord—a quiet sleepy afterglow—says more than our dear doctor would readily admit: That even the great Dr. House cannot perform a symphony alone.
