What'd I Say - A House/Wilson Fic
What'd I Say
Word Count: 1275
Genre: Fluff
Rating: G, believe it or not
Characters: House, Wilson, OCs
Time: Night, wintertime, some point during their epic journey. Wilson is cancer-free.
This story has been in my head for weeks, so I thought I'd write it. I'm a little H/W rusty, so forgive any OOC-ness.
It was like a dozen bars they’d walked into over the past three months. Small, grungy, neon lights advertising Bud Light, ancient framed ads for Schlitz and Schaeffer. Old photos pinned to the wall behind the bar. Boring. The patrons were boring. The smell was boring. But, off to one side was a banged-up upright piano.
“Here we go, Wilson. Get us a couple of beers.”
To make their journey more interesting, since House couldn’t teach Wilson medicine, House decided to teach Wilson piano. This despite the fact that Wilson had less rhythm that a panic-stricken teen at his first dance. Teaching Wilson twelve-bar blues had taken fifty bars over two states.
Often, after the lessons, House played the piano and took requests, for tips. He flat-out refused to play “Let It Go.” The song was bad enough. Listening to it being mangled by some drunken bar babe was more than House could take. Sometimes there would be other musicians, and he could jam. Not often enough. So he took on the colossal task of teaching his tempo-challenged friend to play the piano.
Wilson slid onto the piano bench next to his friend. “So, what’s on the curriculum tonight? You going to make me play ‘Kitchen Man’ again?”
“No.” House gave a slight, condescending nod. “Tonight, we’re going to learn three simple blues chords for the left hand. Simple for anyone but you.”
Wilson started to rise from the piano bench. “I don’t have to take this, House. There’s got to be a woman in here without herpes.”
“Sit down and put your left hand on the piano. E to B-B to D to E. Play that twice.”
Wilson did as he was told, frowning. “Where do my fingers go?” In exasperation, House showed him, thumb to little finger. “We’ve been over this, Wilson.”
“I’m trying, House.”
A long, thin man wearing a trucker’s cap and a bad case of rosacea walked up to the other side of the piano. “Mister, you two better be leaving.”
“You better stop drinking before your nose gets any veiny-er. We’re not together, you retarded tinhorn. I’m giving this guy piano lessons.”
“Best not do it here.”
Wilson whispered, “House, we should--“
House’s eyes did not leave the other man’s face. “Don’t force me to play Mozart.”
“We sleep in separate rooms!” Wilson burst out. “Really! We’re as straight as any of you!”
“Straighter, from what I can see,” House added. “You wouldn’t hit a cripple, would you?” He lifted his cane, with just the tiniest hint of menace.
“No, I--“
“Then fuck off. I’ve got to teach a musk ox how to tickle the ivories.”
Flummoxed, the man went back to the bar. He said a few words to the bartender, who gave House a look that was supposed to be intimidating. Didn’t work.
“Musk ox?”
“Okay, chimpanzee. Where were we? Try again. E-B-B-D-E, E-B-B-D-E, A-E-E-G-A, A-E-E-G-A. Again. Again. Now, B-F sharp-A-A-B, back to A-B-G-A. Again. Jesus, Wilson, put a little soul into it.”
“You’ve already made it clear I have no soul.”
“Again.”
Wilson frowned as he picked out the notes on the yellowed keys. “This sounds familiar.”
“Keep playing.” As Wilson played the bass line over and over, House’s right hand went to the keys and played the same rhythm with flourishes. Wilson stopped.
“I know this song!” He chuckled. “It’s by Ray Charles!” He looked at House. “You’re going to tell me it was first done by Blind Schlomo Rutabaga, aren’t you?” Wilson rested his hand on the keys. “My parents took Danny and me to summer camp, we’d always stop in this old-fashioned luncheonette with ice cream sodas and tiny little hamburgers. It had a jukebox. We’d beg Dad to play this song. We had no idea what it was about, especially the moaning part at the end. Danny thought it was funny.” His smile turned introspective. “Danny thought it was funny. What’s it called?”
“What’d I Say. One of the great songs of our lifetime, even if you little putzes couldn’t appreciate it. Okay, play the chords, I’ll come in with the right hand, B-D-E chord. You keep playing the same bass line through the song, thank God. For the intro, you play a few times, then I come in and demonstrate how lousy you are.”
After a few tries, Wilson had it down. House played the upper part with his right hand. Several bar patrons had stopped talking and listened to the two men play.
“Faster,” House demanded. Wilson did as best he could. Blissful, House went along, his right hand deftly flying through the right-hand part, his left hand beating rhythm on the top of the piano. He started singing.
“Hey mama, don’t you treat me wrong, come love your daddy all night long
All right now, hey hey, all right--
See the girl with the diamond ring, she knows how to shake that thing
All right, now now, all right, all right--“
Wilson grinned like an idiot, proud of keeping up. The other people in the bar were now all listening. Two even clapped along. The bartender leaned on the bar, the intimidating look gone.
“Tell your ma, tell your pa, I’m gonna send you back to Arkansas
Hey hey, you don’t do right, you don’t right, yeah
Well, tell me what'd I say, yeah
Tell me what'd I say right now
Tell me what'd I say yeah
“I’m not bad,” Wilson said proudly.
“Not good enough to use two hands yet,” House replied.
“Keep ‘er goin’!” yelled the skinny man who had been ready to beat them up a short time before. The crowd called out similar encouragement. House nodded to Wilson. Laughing, he struck up the bass line.
And I wanna know
Baby I wanna know right now
And-a I wanna know
And I wanna know right now yeah
And-a I wanna know
Said I wanna know yeah
“Now for the part your parents thought was so funny,” House said. He turned to their new audience. “Call and response time, people!”
He turned back to Wilson. “You too.”
“Hey,” he sang. “Now you repeat it. Hey--“
“Hey”
“Ho”
“Ho” Wilson resolutely sang the repeat with no innuendo whatsoever.
“Hey-“
“Hey-“
“Ho-“
“Ho”
Yeah, baby, what’d I say, baby what’d I say, baby what’d I say,
baby what’d I say right now!”
“Baby one more time--“ House swiveled around to the audience and nodded.
“One more time! You too, Wilson.”
“One more time!”
“Just one more time!”
“Just one more time!” House made a distinctly sexual groan - “Huh,”
Even though the other bar patrons echoed him, Wilson stopped playing. “I can’t do this, House.”
“It’s what all the cool kids are doing.”
Wilson lowered his voice. “I don’t moan in public.”
“You moaned plenty when you were doing that pediatric nurse in the laundry closet. Don’t worry, it isn’t insta-gay.”
“But--okay.”
“Huh”
“Huh
“Hunh”
“Hunh--”
House stopped playing. He and Wilson stared at each other for what seemed a very long time. Then Wilson seemed to realize where they were, dropped his head, resuming the bass line. He looked up, and his eyes locked with House’s. House moaned with what could only be called a lot of feeling.
“Hu-nh...”
“Hu-nh..”
“Oooh”
“Oooh”
“Anh”“Anh”“Hyuh”“Hyuh”“Oh”“Oh”“Hyuh”“Hyuh”
“Yeah! Baby, it’s all right, baby it’s all right, baby it’s all right”
Wilson, cheeks fiery red, sang along with House, who grinned from ear to ear.
“Make me feel all right, make me feel all right, make me feel all right, make me feel all right, make me feel all right, make me feel all right...”
House was wrong. It was insta-gay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For those who don't know the song, here it is.
Word Count: 1275
Genre: Fluff
Rating: G, believe it or not
Characters: House, Wilson, OCs
Time: Night, wintertime, some point during their epic journey. Wilson is cancer-free.
This story has been in my head for weeks, so I thought I'd write it. I'm a little H/W rusty, so forgive any OOC-ness.
It was like a dozen bars they’d walked into over the past three months. Small, grungy, neon lights advertising Bud Light, ancient framed ads for Schlitz and Schaeffer. Old photos pinned to the wall behind the bar. Boring. The patrons were boring. The smell was boring. But, off to one side was a banged-up upright piano.
“Here we go, Wilson. Get us a couple of beers.”
To make their journey more interesting, since House couldn’t teach Wilson medicine, House decided to teach Wilson piano. This despite the fact that Wilson had less rhythm that a panic-stricken teen at his first dance. Teaching Wilson twelve-bar blues had taken fifty bars over two states.
Often, after the lessons, House played the piano and took requests, for tips. He flat-out refused to play “Let It Go.” The song was bad enough. Listening to it being mangled by some drunken bar babe was more than House could take. Sometimes there would be other musicians, and he could jam. Not often enough. So he took on the colossal task of teaching his tempo-challenged friend to play the piano.
Wilson slid onto the piano bench next to his friend. “So, what’s on the curriculum tonight? You going to make me play ‘Kitchen Man’ again?”
“No.” House gave a slight, condescending nod. “Tonight, we’re going to learn three simple blues chords for the left hand. Simple for anyone but you.”
Wilson started to rise from the piano bench. “I don’t have to take this, House. There’s got to be a woman in here without herpes.”
“Sit down and put your left hand on the piano. E to B-B to D to E. Play that twice.”
Wilson did as he was told, frowning. “Where do my fingers go?” In exasperation, House showed him, thumb to little finger. “We’ve been over this, Wilson.”
“I’m trying, House.”
A long, thin man wearing a trucker’s cap and a bad case of rosacea walked up to the other side of the piano. “Mister, you two better be leaving.”
“You better stop drinking before your nose gets any veiny-er. We’re not together, you retarded tinhorn. I’m giving this guy piano lessons.”
“Best not do it here.”
Wilson whispered, “House, we should--“
House’s eyes did not leave the other man’s face. “Don’t force me to play Mozart.”
“We sleep in separate rooms!” Wilson burst out. “Really! We’re as straight as any of you!”
“Straighter, from what I can see,” House added. “You wouldn’t hit a cripple, would you?” He lifted his cane, with just the tiniest hint of menace.
“No, I--“
“Then fuck off. I’ve got to teach a musk ox how to tickle the ivories.”
Flummoxed, the man went back to the bar. He said a few words to the bartender, who gave House a look that was supposed to be intimidating. Didn’t work.
“Musk ox?”
“Okay, chimpanzee. Where were we? Try again. E-B-B-D-E, E-B-B-D-E, A-E-E-G-A, A-E-E-G-A. Again. Again. Now, B-F sharp-A-A-B, back to A-B-G-A. Again. Jesus, Wilson, put a little soul into it.”
“You’ve already made it clear I have no soul.”
“Again.”
Wilson frowned as he picked out the notes on the yellowed keys. “This sounds familiar.”
“Keep playing.” As Wilson played the bass line over and over, House’s right hand went to the keys and played the same rhythm with flourishes. Wilson stopped.
“I know this song!” He chuckled. “It’s by Ray Charles!” He looked at House. “You’re going to tell me it was first done by Blind Schlomo Rutabaga, aren’t you?” Wilson rested his hand on the keys. “My parents took Danny and me to summer camp, we’d always stop in this old-fashioned luncheonette with ice cream sodas and tiny little hamburgers. It had a jukebox. We’d beg Dad to play this song. We had no idea what it was about, especially the moaning part at the end. Danny thought it was funny.” His smile turned introspective. “Danny thought it was funny. What’s it called?”
“What’d I Say. One of the great songs of our lifetime, even if you little putzes couldn’t appreciate it. Okay, play the chords, I’ll come in with the right hand, B-D-E chord. You keep playing the same bass line through the song, thank God. For the intro, you play a few times, then I come in and demonstrate how lousy you are.”
After a few tries, Wilson had it down. House played the upper part with his right hand. Several bar patrons had stopped talking and listened to the two men play.
“Faster,” House demanded. Wilson did as best he could. Blissful, House went along, his right hand deftly flying through the right-hand part, his left hand beating rhythm on the top of the piano. He started singing.
“Hey mama, don’t you treat me wrong, come love your daddy all night long
All right now, hey hey, all right--
See the girl with the diamond ring, she knows how to shake that thing
All right, now now, all right, all right--“
Wilson grinned like an idiot, proud of keeping up. The other people in the bar were now all listening. Two even clapped along. The bartender leaned on the bar, the intimidating look gone.
“Tell your ma, tell your pa, I’m gonna send you back to Arkansas
Hey hey, you don’t do right, you don’t right, yeah
Well, tell me what'd I say, yeah
Tell me what'd I say right now
Tell me what'd I say yeah
“I’m not bad,” Wilson said proudly.
“Not good enough to use two hands yet,” House replied.
“Keep ‘er goin’!” yelled the skinny man who had been ready to beat them up a short time before. The crowd called out similar encouragement. House nodded to Wilson. Laughing, he struck up the bass line.
And I wanna know
Baby I wanna know right now
And-a I wanna know
And I wanna know right now yeah
And-a I wanna know
Said I wanna know yeah
“Now for the part your parents thought was so funny,” House said. He turned to their new audience. “Call and response time, people!”
He turned back to Wilson. “You too.”
“Hey,” he sang. “Now you repeat it. Hey--“
“Hey”
“Ho”
“Ho” Wilson resolutely sang the repeat with no innuendo whatsoever.
“Hey-“
“Hey-“
“Ho-“
“Ho”
Yeah, baby, what’d I say, baby what’d I say, baby what’d I say,
baby what’d I say right now!”
“Baby one more time--“ House swiveled around to the audience and nodded.
“One more time! You too, Wilson.”
“One more time!”
“Just one more time!”
“Just one more time!” House made a distinctly sexual groan - “Huh,”
Even though the other bar patrons echoed him, Wilson stopped playing. “I can’t do this, House.”
“It’s what all the cool kids are doing.”
Wilson lowered his voice. “I don’t moan in public.”
“You moaned plenty when you were doing that pediatric nurse in the laundry closet. Don’t worry, it isn’t insta-gay.”
“But--okay.”
“Huh”
“Huh
“Hunh”
“Hunh--”
House stopped playing. He and Wilson stared at each other for what seemed a very long time. Then Wilson seemed to realize where they were, dropped his head, resuming the bass line. He looked up, and his eyes locked with House’s. House moaned with what could only be called a lot of feeling.
“Hu-nh...”
“Hu-nh..”
“Oooh”
“Oooh”
“Anh”“Anh”“Hyuh”“Hyuh”“Oh”“Oh”“Hyuh”“Hyuh”
“Yeah! Baby, it’s all right, baby it’s all right, baby it’s all right”
Wilson, cheeks fiery red, sang along with House, who grinned from ear to ear.
“Make me feel all right, make me feel all right, make me feel all right, make me feel all right, make me feel all right, make me feel all right...”
House was wrong. It was insta-gay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For those who don't know the song, here it is.
Click to view