Prelude, Op. 10, No. 6, in B minor

[rubicks_complex]

The last thing House really expected to discover when he entered the bar was a piano sitting in the corner. He was in between waiting for his next dose of Oxycontin from Cuddy, he was bored, he was in pain, he was aggravated from pretty much everything, he wanted a drink. Or two. Maybe three. Or, hey, maybe even four. Enough drink to take the edge

Comments

[takingcareof]

River walked into the dining hall, boots on for once, intent upon some more of the food. She wondered if there would be those cheesy - what had Dean called them? Potatoes? - again; they'd been quite good. Protein pastes were satisfying in the purely gustatory, elemental sense, but she remembered Simon explaining that food could be pleasurable in itself, like touching or dancing.

She walked toward the tables of food, noting to her delight that there was a plate of mashed potatoes, with a generous helping of orange shavings on top that she assumed was cheese. So far, the hotel's offers of material things had not been malevolent - key words so far - and so River took a chance, figuring the odds were in her favour.

She sat down to eat, but only a few bites had made their way down her gullet when she heard a plinking of keys. A pianoforte? She'd heard piano music before, on holovids. The sound up close and personal was jarring, or at least it was until a melody started to unwind from its innards

[rubicks_complex]

House started playing with more rubato the more lost in the music he became. His eyes were still closed, his face was mirroring the expression he was putting into the music and

[takingcareof]

His voice was flat, as if he wasn't used to using it. "Because of its beauty," River answered, as if such a thing was self-evident. She kept looking at the hammers and the strings, fingers clasping the wood tighter each time the hammer struck. "Someone with less skill, it would keep its melodies. Only give out clunks, like an old engine. You tease it into a giving mood."

He was looking at her now, and she took the time to look back. A weariness in the eyes. She imagined even when he smiled, his eyes never lost their weight. It was strange, yet not wholly unfamiliar. His posture was lazy, but she doubted anything was fundamentally wrong with his body. At least that part of it - River noticed the cracked varnish on the length of wood propped on the piano bench beside him, but didn't say anything about it.

[rubicks_complex]

House cocked his head to the side, the expression of puzzlement on his face growing all the more puzzled. She had a very strange way of talking, as though she spoke using words of association.

That she was referring to the piano having 'moods' and evidently having feelings if her comment about the piano trusting him was anything to go by, made him wonder why she'd associate an inanimate object with having feelings. It almost seemed like she was somehow detached from the idea of emotions, simply because it wasn't the normal thing to do for a grown person to associate feelings and thoughts with inanimate objects.

"The piano gives music because I tell it to," House replied. "With my fingers."

He played a chord, followed by a C major scale, and looked back to the woman. "See? A piano doesn't have thoughts or feelings. Not like you or me."